


Coats and Customs

by imaginary_golux



Series: Coats and Customs 'verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Dwobbits, M/M, fixed that pesky lifespan issue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 31,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Smaug never happened: Thror arranges Thorin's marriage to a hobbit.  Thorin isn't entirely sure what a hobbit is. Written for a prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The advisor stammered, “Does your Highness have any questions?” and all Thorin could come up with, on the heels of the stunning announcement of his betrothal to someone called “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” was, “What, in Mahal’s name, _is_ a hobbit?”

Turned out the advisor had never seen one either.

So here Thorin is, glove-married to someone he’s never met, standing outside his own bedroom, wondering what, precisely, he is going to find within. Dwalin, who had escorted the hobbit to Thorin’s rooms, had just smirked when Thorin pulled him aside to hiss, “What do hobbits look like?” Presumably that meant that the hobbit wasn’t _too_ hideous – Dwalin would have warned him if it looked like an elf, surely?

He pulls open the door a little too hard and winces at the bang as it hits the wall, and gapes. There, in the middle of his bedroom, wearing nothing but his favorite fur coat, is a…  


Well, it must be a hobbit. _He_ must be a hobbit. He is smaller than a dwarf, with short curly hair and no beard at all (no beard! How _unsettling_ ) and slightly pointed ears. His bare feet are furry, as if all the hair that ought to be on his chin has migrated southwards for the winter. He is plump and soft-looking, and his face looks like it ought to be smiling, but the hobbit instead looks…worried. And shy.

The hobbit bows, one hand over his bare chest, and says, in a high nervous voice, “Bilbo Baggins at your service.”

Thorin recollects his manners. “Thorin son of Thrain, at yours,” he replies, and steps into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. There are so many questions to ask, from _what is a hobbit_ to _why did my grandfather arrange for us to marry_ , but all Thorin can think to say is, “Why are you wearing my coat?”

Bilbo looks at his furry feet. “It’s a hobbit tradition. To greet your bridegroom wearing only his winter coat, as a sign that he will shelter you in bad times and warm you in good.”

That’s surprisingly…sweet, Thorin thinks. A touching tradition. “You look good in it,” he finds himself saying. Bilbo’s pointed ears turn pink. Thorin finds himself warming to his unexpected spouse. To be sure, the lack of a beard is _distinctly_ unnerving, but Bilbo seems a pleasant fellow. The situation could definitely be worse. Mahal knows what sort of strange traditions elves might have, for instance!

“Be welcome in my rooms and in my life,” he says at last, not quite the traditional bridegroom’s oath, but this is not quite a traditional situation. Bilbo looks up from his feet and smiles, and Thorin feels a sudden shock. The hobbit has a _marvelous_ smile. Thorin swears to himself to make sure the hobbit has many reasons to share it.

But there is still the matter of consummation. Thorin does not shuffle his feet awkwardly, because that would be unbecoming of a Prince of Erebor. Instead he says, “By my people’s customs, we…would be expected to consummate our marriage tonight.”

“By mine as well,” says Bilbo, and gives Thorin a faintly apprehensive look. That decides Thorin.

“Since you are so much smaller, you had best be on top tonight,” he tells the hobbit. Bilbo’s eyes go wide in astonishment.

“I don’t quite know how,” he confesses shyly, and Thorin cannot help but stride across the room and gather his fur-wrapped hobbit husband in his arms.

“I will teach you,” he tells his warm armful as he bears _his_ hobbit to the bed. “And then later, when you are less nervous and it will not hurt, we will try the other way.”

Bilbo relaxes a bit, and wriggles to make himself more comfortable in the coat and in Thorin’s arms. “Just as you say, husband,” he agrees, and Thorin is suddenly, achingly glad for his grandfather’s madness, without which Thorin would never have known he _wanted_ a little, soft, fur-wrapped hobbit to call his own.

The hobbit is not soft all over, Thorin notes once he has gotten them to the bed and divested them of their clothing (in his own case) and a fur cloak (in Bilbo’s). Bilbo’s respectably proportioned, for a non-dwarf, and though he’s blushing shyly again, certain parts of him are _very_ interested in consummating their marriage.

And he’s looking a bit awed at his first sight of Thorin naked, which is surprisingly ego-boosting – not that Thorin’s ever _needed_ his ego boosted. Still, the hobbit’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks are pleasant to look on, and Thorin decides that he wants his hobbit to look like that as often as possible. So he props his hobbit up on pillows at the head of the bed – Bilbo goes willingly, looking lost and aroused in about equal measure – and spreads himself out over the rest of the bed with a bottle of oil in one hand and a filthy smirk.

Bilbo watches wide-eyed as Thorin opens himself, and his hand are twisted in the pillows. Thorin grins, hungry and wicked, and Bilbo looks from grin to moving hands and back again, and blushes to the tips of his pointed ears, and licks dry lips.

After much too long, and only just barely long enough – who knew that a look of hunger and astonishment on a hobbit’s bare face was enough to push Thorin nearly to the brink? – Thorin takes his hand from himself and beckons to his husband with oil-slick fingers. “Come, then, husband,” he says formally, and Bilbo makes a strangled sound deep in his throat and lurches forward, landing on hands and knees over Thorin and staring into Thorin’s face with a helpless, desirous heat in his eyes. Thorin spreads his legs wider and guides the hobbit forward, and there is a single confused moment and then the stretch and slight burn of penetration. Bilbo makes another strangled sound and drops his head to rest on Thorin’s chest. Thorin laughs, and tangles his clean hand’s fingers in Bilbo’s curly hair, and says, “Go on.”

Bilbo is clumsy in the way that virgins are – and Bilbo is not the first virgin Thorin has had, though Thorin supposes he will be the last, marriage being what it is – but he is clearly interested in making sure Thorin enjoys himself, and the expression of stunned pleasure on his face when Thorin finally kisses him is almost as precious as gold.

When they have both found their pleasure – Bilbo carefully wrapping his hand around Thorin’s bulk and looking a little nervous but very determined, which is also an adorable look for him – Thorin tucks his husband into the curve of his body and tugs the heavy sheets over them both. Bilbo sighs a little, and relaxes into Thorin’s grasp, and as Thorin slips into dreams he hears the hobbit murmur, “Well, this isn’t so bad at all.” Thorin smiles against his husband’s hair and quite agrees.


	2. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin goes to find out why he has just married a hobbit, and is not happy with the answer.
> 
> ...this may be turning into an epic and going somewhere very strange.

In the morning, the royal tailors and armorers swarm the suite, intent on outfitting Bilbo as befits the consort of the prince of Erebor. Bilbo, still snug in Thorin’s arms, is quite alarmed by the intrusion. “Be easy,” Thorin tells him. “You must be accoutered as befits a prince.”

“I _like_ my clothing,” Bilbo objects. Thorin shakes his head.

“When you stand beside the throne of Erebor, you must be appropriately garbed,” he says. “At other times you may of course dress as you please.” To the armorers he adds, “Mithril, I think, to guard my great treasure.” Bilbo’s cheeks go pink and he makes a soft sound of surprise and pleasure.

Thorin urges his husband to his feet so the tailors can measure him, and stands himself, striding to his wardrobe and finding appropriate clothing. He wears only light armor, here in Erebor – wore none last night, of course, to meet his husband – but Bilbo still looks intimidated when Thorin turns back to face the room, fully dressed and with his axe upon his back. Thorin ruffles his husband’s hair as he goes by, enjoying the look of indignation. “I must meet with my father,” he tells Bilbo, “and with some of my advisors. I will return to escort you to luncheon.”

“Is there any chance of _breakfast_?” asks Bilbo, rather petulantly.

“I will have it sent in to you,” Thorin promises.

He leaves his rooms, and Dwalin falls into step beside him. Thorin gives his friend and guard a mock glare. “You could have warned me about the lack of beard,” he comments.

Dwalin laughs. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“Very,” Thorin agrees cheerfully. “Beardless or no.” He beckons another guard as they pass. “Have a large breakfast sent to my suite, and send one of the court scribes up to ask my consort about the customs of hobbits. I would know what is expected of a husband in my husband’s land.”

The guard bows and hurries off, and Dwalin stifles a snicker. “You’re smitten, my prince.”

Thorin glares. “I am merely being diplomatic,” he says curtly. “It would not do to offend my new husband so soon.”

“Of course,” Dwalin agrees blandly, though his expression of innocence goes ill with the tattoos and knuckledusters. Thorin reflects again on how frustrating having a friend who knows him so well can be.

The advisors are waiting for him, seated around a table with faintly worried expressions. Thorin is fairly sure that advisors are required to _always_ have faintly worried expressions. At least they have also arranged for a plate of food and a mug of small beer to be waiting for Thorin, who takes his seat at the head of the table and raises an eyebrow at Balin, the most sensible of his advisors.

“May we offer our congratulations on your marriage?” Balin inquires delicately. Thorin grins and forks up a mouthful of hash.

“You certainly may,” he agrees once he’s swallowed. “And I now know what a hobbit _is_ , which is a pleasant turn of events.”

Balin looks curious. “My prince, I must confess that we have not had the pleasure of meeting your consort, as your grandfather’s orders were for him to be taken directly to your quarters.” There is a question somewhere in there, Thorin is sure, and he considers how to answer as he cleans his plate.

“Hobbits are smaller than dwarven folk,” he says at last, “and they have no beards.” The advisors shudder as one. “Their feet are furry, and their ears pointed. Beyond that I think you will have to consult with my consort, or perhaps with the scribe I ordered sent to speak with him.” Balin nods understandingly, and the other advisors follow suit.

Thorin drains his mug of beer and sits back. “Now that I have satisfied your curiosity,” he says, “have any of you learned why it is my honored king decided that I should wed a hobbit in the first place?”

Balin clears his throat awkwardly. “Actually,” he says slowly, “yes.” He pulls a sheet of parchment from his pocket and spreads it on the table; all of the others lean in to see. It appears to be a contract, written half in Khuzdul and half in Common. Balin frowns at it.

“The short version, my prince, and honored colleagues, is that in return for Erebor’s protection and patronage, as represented in the marriage of our eldest prince to the person described as ‘a fitting representative of the Shire’ – I presume this is Mister Bilbo Baggins – the hobbits of the Shire will allow the people of Erebor to build, burrow, or construct a colony in the Blue Mountains to the south-west of the Shire, and will supply the Blue Mountains colony with foodstuffs and other goods to the best of their ability.” Balin looks up from the parchment. “I am told, my prince, that the Shire is a wide and fertile land, but that in harsh winters the orcs and wargs of the wild lands descend upon its people. I am also told that there are rich veins of gold beneath the Blue Mountains, which the hobbits of the Shire do not care to mine.”

Thorin nods. Erebor is becoming crowded, these days. Thror is a strong king, his people well-fed and his mountain full of gold. Sending a colony to these Blue Mountains is only sensible, and forging an alliance with a peaceful, pastoral people who can feed the colony while the dwarves settle in is eminently wise. Really, there is only one more question:

“Who will be _leading_ this expedition to the Blue Mountains?” Thorin demands.

Balin’s white face gives the answer before the old dwarf speaks: “You, my prince.”


	3. In Which Ori and Bilbo Are Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori comes to learn about hobbits, and Bilbo learns a few things about dwarves that don't please him at all.

Bilbo is very grateful for the plate of food brought to him by a nervous, young-looking dwarf: it is a pleasant distraction from the mutterings of the tailors and armorers, who have finally allowed him to get dressed and are now huddled in a corner of the suite muttering about leather and chainmail. Respectable hobbits do _not_ wear leather and chainmail.

The nervous-looking dwarf introduces himself as Ori, apprentice to the court scribe. He watches while Bilbo devours breakfast (and wonders if dwarves know about second breakfast) before stammering that he’s been sent to ask about hobbit culture. Bilbo beams.

“I would be glad to tell you. Is there a place we could sit and talk? Perhaps someplace with a window?”

Ori does him one better, leading him out onto a balcony with a little stone bench. Bilbo sits and looks over the bustling city of Dale and basks in the sunshine for a few minutes. At last he sighs and looks at Ori, who is, to his slight surprise, sketching him. It’s a very good likeness. Ori blushes when he catches Bilbo watching, and flips the page over quickly.

“Tell me about hobbits,” he invites, quill poised, and Bilbo leans back to look over Dale again and thinks.

“We are…a peaceful people,” he says at last. “We like our small comforts. Food – we have seven meals a day, you know! – and fine clothing and furnishings. We sing and dance, and give presents at any occasion.”

Ori laughs a little. “Seven meals! How do you fit them all in?”

“Breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, lunch, tea, dinner, and supper, of course,” Bilbo explains, to Ori’s dumbfounded look. “Not to mention midnight snack if you’re feeling peckish.”

“But you’re so small!” Ori exclaims. “How does it all _fit_?”

Bilbo laughs. “I don’t know, it just does,” he says cheerfully. “How many meals do dwarves have?”

“Just the three,” says Ori, a little sadly. Then he perks up. “Perhaps you could convince the prince to introduce a few more?” Bilbo grins.

“I shall certainly try,” he agrees. “Let me see now. We like bright colors, and any excuse for a party. And we live in hills, not like this great stone mountain, but little rolling hills, with grass on them.” He looks suddenly, deeply sad. “I wonder if I shall ever see Bag End again, and my little green door, and my gardens?”

Ori pats Bilbo’s hand reassuringly. “I hope you will,” he says. “It sounds lovely!”

“It is,” Bilbo agrees. “But now you know a little about my people – tell me of dwarves! I had never seen a dwarf until the delegation came to the Shire six months ago, and they did not speak to me hardly at all.”

Ori grins. “Well, we have beards, which you do not seem to,” he says, and Bilbo laughs.

“It’s true, hobbits do not grow beards as Men and Dwarves do,” he agrees.

“Well, that is a strange thing, and to tell the truth it’s a bit unsettling to see you without one, face all bare like a human woman’s – but that’s nothing I should be speaking of, I’m sure,” Ori finishes hastily as Bilbo blushes. “But otherwise I am sure we are a very easily understood folk; we like mining, and gold and gems, and when you come to the throne room tonight you will see the Arkenstone, pride of the mountain, on King Thror’s throne.”

“Oh! That sounds lovely,” Bilbo smiles. “And is King Thror my husband’s father?”

“No, no,” Ori hastens to correct him. “Thorin’s father is Thrain, son of Thror. Thorin is the prince after his father, you see. And then Frerin, Thorin’s brother, and then the children of his sister, the lady Dis, Fili and Kili they are called.”

“What a marvelous small family,” Bilbo says wonderingly.

Ori gapes. “ _Small_? Why, what do you call a large family?”

“Well, there are my cousins the Tooks, and there are a round dozen of them; and the Brandybucks have nine or ten children, I think, though I haven’t counted them recently, to be sure. I would have had siblings myself, save that my mother took ill when I was born.”

“By Mahal!” Ori breathes. “Why, it is a fine thing for a dwarf matron to have three children, or four; but that is a rare thing indeed.”

Bilbo regards him curiously. “So there _are_ dwarf women! …How can you tell?”

Ori grins. “Well, of course their beards are much finer and softer than ours…and they braid such pretty trinkets into them.”

Bilbo nods slowly. “I…see.” Then, consideringly, “So Thorin’s father yet lives?”

“Yes,” Ori agrees, but he looks uncomfortable. “He is…not much in favor with the king, however.”

“His only son, not in favor? Why so?”

“Some hundred and forty years ago – I was then very young, my beard had not yet begun to come in, but my elder brother Dori was there, and he remembers – some hundred and forty years ago, the king sent his son to attempt to reclaim the mountains and delvings of Moria.”

“I crossed those mountains on my journey here,” Bilbo says slowly. “Gandalf, who brought me, said they were a haunt of dark things, and dangerous.”

“And so they are, for Prince Thrain did not defeat the orcs who dwell there. There was a great battle, called the Battle of Azanulbizar, and many dwarves fell and many orcs; but in the end there was no driving the orcs from Moria without such loss of life as would have made a mockery of victory, and so Prince Thrain retreated from the field, and brought the army’s remnants back again to Erebor. But the king was wroth with him for his retreat, and would not hear any word in favor of it, and so Prince Thrain is much out of his father’s countenance.”

Bilbo nods. “I see. And my husband?”

Ori looks around, as though to check that no one is near enough to hear him. “Prince Thorin, so say those who remember so long, is the very image of his father when Prince Thrain was young; and so the king, whose eyes perhaps are not as shrewd as they were wont to be, calls sometimes Thorin by Thrain’s name, and curses at him.”

“So my husband, too, is out of favor.”

“I think so, though my brothers keep me from court as they can; they do not want me hurt, and I am yet young.” Ori strokes his small beard thoughtfully. “Prince Frerin, so my brothers say, is much in favor, for he looks more like his mother (Mahal bless her in the Halls of the Undying) than Prince Thrain.”

Bilbo nods again, and carefully keeps his worry from his face. The treaty which will bring the Shire the protection of the dwarves, in return for a set of mountains the hobbits have no wish to settle, looks more precarious the more Ori tells him; but the young dwarf is so painfully eager to please that Bilbo cannot bear to tell him how worrisome his news has been. Instead, he turns the conversation to favorite foods, and the sort of dances dwarves favor, and promises himself that he will speak to Thorin over lunch, and see if the dire state he suspects is true.


	4. In Which Thorin Is Angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has a very polite temper tantrum and then begins planning for his journey.

Thorin is furious. Not with Balin – he bows to the older dwarf, makes his goodbyes politely to the other advisors – for surely Balin knew nothing of this until today. Thorin trusts that Balin would have told him earlier if he could have.

No, Thorin is furious with his father, and with his grandfather. Bad enough to be informed of a marriage he had no part in choosing: he is a prince, and princes wed for the good of the kingdom. He has always expected a political marriage, though he had anticipated another dwarf to be his wife, not a male hobbit. Still, political unions are political unions, and his little soft hobbit is a sweet and lovely thing.

But to be exiled from Erebor – for that is the only interpretation Thorin can find for his grandfather’s edict – to be exiled, sent far beyond Moria to some unsettled mountains, there to carve a home or die! It is intolerable, and yet he must tolerate it, for as ancient as Thror is, he is still King Under the Mountain, and his word is law and his whim is iron.

Thorin arrives at his father’s apartments in a towering fury. His father is sitting at a little table, looking out the window; he is often so. His defeat at the Battle of Azanulbizar cost him an eye and all his pride, and the king’s cruelty to him has not soothed either wound. Still, he is a prince, and Thorin’s father, and Thorin knows better than to let the poisonous words on his tongue flow forth. Instead he says, “Father,” and leaves it at that.

Thrain turns to look at him, and sighs. “You have found out about the treaty, I see.”

“Yes, Father.”

“My son, I also did not know of it until this very morning; already you had consummated your marriage – or so I assume – and gone in to your advisors. Your honored grandfather has kept this plan of his so close to his chest that I did not even know the delegation had been sent out.”

Thorin glares. What his father says is certain to be true – Thrain does not lie well – but it does not soothe Thorin’s fury at all. “Will I at the least be able to choose my compatriots in this mad venture, or will that too be at my honored grandfather’s will?”

Thrain grimaces. “You will be able to choose, my son. But bear in mind that anyone you choose to accompany you will inevitably be seen in the same light that we are – your honored grandfather will think them traitors, too.”

“What have I done to give him cause to think me treasonous?” Thorin cries. “I was too young to be sent to Azanulbizar – I never gave him cause to doubt me!”

Thrain winces as that blow strikes home. But he is a dwarf of the line of Durin, and he glares back at his son. “I know that, Thorin, as well as you do – as well as all the court does! Cause or no cause, he doubts you; what would you have me do to change that?”

Thorin sighs and sits in the chair waiting for him. “I know, Father, that there is nothing either of us can do to change his mind. So. I will do my duty as a prince of Durin’s line: this colony in the Blue Mountains will thrive, or I’ll know why.”

Thrain nods. “I have spread the word that you are looking for volunteers. There are many in the mountain who would, I think, be glad of a change of scenery; and there are those who think it too crowded. You will have a sizable contingent when you go, and not all of them malcontents or rabble-rousers, either.”

Thorin pulls a piece of parchment towards him, and a quill. “Still, there are those I must have. Balin and Dwalin, of course; I will need those I trust beside me. I would like Dori: he is a strong back and a cool head. He will not come without his brothers, but then Ori is a talented scribe and I am sure we can find something to do with Nori.”

Thrain says, “I think you do not know, perhaps – Nori is not merely a petty thief.”

“Oh?”

“He is in training under Spymaster Terin. He will be a valuable asset to your colony.”

Thorin blinks in surprise. “That, truly, I did not know, but I am glad to hear it.”

Thrain beams. “I will also recommend to you the assistant to the Court Healer, Oin son of Groin. His brother Gloin is married with a young son, and I think perhaps it would be wise to have children with you; to be sure, they will have to be protected on your journey, but it will make it clearer to the hobbits when you reach them that you are not conquerors but allies.”

“Your counsel is wise,” Thorin agrees, and scratches the names down on his parchment. There is a light tap at the door, and Thrain calls a welcome. Dwalin pokes his head in.

“Your pardon, my princes, but Prince Thorin promised his husband he would lunch with him, and is it nearly time for luncheon.”

Thorin rises, tucking the parchment into his tunic. “So I did promise. Father, my thanks for your counsel, and I will hope to see you in court tonight when I present my consort to the king.”

“I will be there,” Thrain promises, and Thorin leaves.


	5. In Which There Is Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo have lunch together, look at maps, and clear the air a little.

Bilbo is waiting when Thorin arrives, seated beside a table set with good things. Thorin may be a prince in disgrace, but he is still a prince, and the cooks and guards and other functionaries of the court are not so dismissive of him as his grandfather’s advisors and sycophants. Thorin greets his husband with a kiss on the hobbit’s curly head and sits across from him, helping himself to bread and cheese and meat. It is not Bilbo’s fault that Thorin’s grandfather is gold-mad and cruel, and Thorin will not take out his anger on his new husband.

Bilbo fills his own plate, but he seems to be gathering his strength for something, and at last he speaks: “You mustn’t be angry at the scribe, husband.”

Thorin blinks. “Angry at him? Whatever for?”

“He told me that my wedding to the eldest son of the prince was perhaps not…not the honor it seemed to be, when I was home in the Shire and the dwarves presented their treaty.”

Thorin winces. “He told you, you mean, that I and my father are much out of favor.”

“Yes.” Bilbo looks down at his plate. “I did not wish to put it so bluntly.”

Thorin pushes his food away, appetite suddenly gone. “It is true that I am out of favor, and that I did not even know of the colony I am to found until this very morning – that I have still, in fact, seen neither map nor plan of where I am to go. But it is also true that I will do my duty, and I have been contracted to protect the Shire. You may have my oath to that, if you desire it.” He is slightly impressed, despite his harsh words, at the courage it must take for a little hobbit to challenge a prince of Erebor in the midst of the mountain.

Bilbo studies his face for long moments, then nods. “I believe you,” he says; “There is no need for oaths. And favor of the king or no, the hobbits of the Shire will uphold our end of the bargain – we will be glad to have you, you know, whatever the king under a far-off mountain thinks.”

Now that is a new way of considering the matter, thinks Thorin. He will be far from his grandfather – far from the poison that the advisors whisper in Thror’s ears, far from the pain of watching his younger brother made much of while he is thrust aside as so much trash. The hobbits will be glad to have him. It will be pleasant to be made welcome. He smiles at Bilbo, and pulls his plate close again, appetite returned.

“Come, let us speak of more pleasant things; there will be politics aplenty at court this evening. Tell me of your journey, or of the Shire.”

Bilbo smiles back. “You said, I think, you’ve never even seen a map of the Shire?”

“Indeed I have not.”

Bilbo stands and goes over to his pack, which is sitting in a corner of the room, looking rather out of place. He produces a small book bound in red leather and bears it triumphantly back to the table. “I love maps,” he tells Thorin. The page he opens to shows the Shire in loving detail, with the Brandywine River running through it and the Blue Mountains cradling it in the south-west. Thorin leans over it eagerly. The map is annotated in a clear, spidery hand, and there is a very small red star near the middle of the Shire, with ‘Bag End’ written beside it.

Thorin points to the star. “Is that your home?”

“Yes,” Bilbo says, a little sadly. “My father, Bungo, built it for my mother when they married. It’s built into the side of the Hill, and there are gardens all about it.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Thorin says, and then, “When we reach the Shire, I am sure it will be waiting for you.”

“Oh!” says Bilbo, much astonished and pleased. “But surely I will be living in the Blue Mountains with you?”

Thorin is neither heartless nor stupid. “We will of course need to visit the Shire often,” he says quietly, “and there is no reason we cannot keep your home as our Shire residence.”

Bilbo blushes and gives Thorin that lovely smile, and Thorin feels warm down to his very toes. It is only proper of him to please his husband, and this is such a small promise, really. And there is something very pleasant about thinking of a home waiting for him, far off in a green land. It is not Erebor, of course, not the mountain of his heart – but it is pleasant nonetheless.

Bilbo shakes himself a little and turns the page to a map showing what looks like most of Middle-Earth. He lays his finger on the Lonely Mountain, marked out in black, and traces a line through the Greenwood, over the Misty Mountains, down through an area marked ‘Coldfells,’ and along the East-West Road until he breaks off south to reach the Blue Mountains. Thorin watches carefully.

“Gandalf brought me, you know. We went through Bree, and then to Rivendell – oh, it was beautiful! – and over the mountains by a pass he knew. Then we visited a friend of his, a shapeshifter named Beorn.” He pointed to the little box on the map. “He was enormous, but very friendly. If only he would’ve stopped calling me ‘little bunny,’ though!”

Thorin cannot keep from laughing, despite his husband’s glare. Bilbo wrinkles his nose in frustration and goes back to the map.

“Then we went north to the path through the Greenwood – there were elves waiting there, I think Lord Elrond of Rivendell sent word ahead, though I don’t know how – and they brought us through the Greenwood and then in boats up the Long Lake to Dale. Your guard, Dwalin, met us in Dale, and brought me here – Gandalf said he was off back to the Shire, to start arranging things.”

“A long journey,” Thorin says slowly, “but not impossible, I think. I shall have to send a messenger to the wood-elves to arrange our passage. Ugh! Elves!”

“Why, do you not like elves, husband? I found them very wise and cheerful people.”

Thorin sighs, looking into his husband’s hopeful eyes. “No dwarf likes elves, never have. ‘Twas hard enough for my father to get even their permission to pass through on the way to the battle, and never any help they’ve given us against the scum of orcs and goblins in the Mines of Moria.”

“Oh.” Bilbo looks briefly sad. “Well, I shall assume we won’t be visiting Lord Elrond, then.”

Thorin grits his teeth. On the one hand, the dwarven hatred for elves is deep, and Thorin has never had a kind word for one. On the other hand, he will be living near the accursed creatures, and his husband looks sad. “Perhaps we will send an embassy now and again,” he says at last. “You may head it, as you like them – only do not expect me to be more than civil if they come visiting in turn!”

Bilbo beams at him, then shakes his head. “Me, head an embassy!”

“You,” Thorin agrees. “You will be the Prince Consort of the Blue Mountains, you know. Second only to me in power. Had that not occurred to you?”

Bilbo shakes his head again, looking utterly dumbfounded. “Goodness gracious, no! Hobbits don’t have kings or princes…to think a respectable Baggins of Bag End will be a prince consort! My father would have a fit, were he still alive. Oh, the Sackville-Bagginses will be absolutely green!”

Thorin laughs and laughs, and thinks to himself that a ‘respectable Baggins of Bag End’ may well be one of the best things that has ever happened to him.


	6. In Which Bilbo Is Presented At Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a celebration of Thorin's marriage and imminent departure. Well, when I say celebration...

The tailors bring the only clothing they have finished to Thorin’s rooms, where Bilbo and Thorin are poring over the maps and chattering about ponies and provisions. Bilbo looks mournfully at his waistcoat and trousers, but there is nothing for it; Thorin insists that his consort must be dressed in proper dwarven fashion, at least for this event.

“Take heart,” Thorin tells Bilbo as the hobbit struggles into the leathers and woolens which make up court gear. “We will be leaving soon enough, and you will be able to wear your hobbitish clothing as much as you care to.”

Bilbo sighs. “I suppose that is just as well,” he says, “I feel as though these clothes are trying to eat me, they are so heavy!”

It is true that Bilbo looks a little overwhelmed by the clothing – Thorin rather thinks it has been cut down from some of the clothing made for young dwarves, since Bilbo is so small – but at least there is nothing in it in which Thror can find fault.

Thorin leads his husband through the halls of Erebor, Dwalin behind them, until they reach the doors to the great hall. The herald bows to him and steps out to announce them. Thorin places Bilbo’s hand on his arm and whispers, “Courage, my husband.”

They hear the herald cry, “Thorin son of Thrain, prince of Erebor, and his consort, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire!” Thorin guides his husband into the hall, head high. He may be in disfavor with his grandfather, this whole celebration may be meant to mock him with the throne he may never have, but his husband is a brave, clever fellow and Thorin is proud to have him.

The whispers start as soon as they enter the hall: “He hasn’t any beard!” “Is it a child?” “What is a hobbit anyhow?” “Look, he’s not wearing shoes!” Thorin can feel his husband shaking slightly beside him, but Bilbo’s head is high and he meets the stares of the astonished dwarves with an even expression. Thorin is prouder yet. He leads Bilbo down the carpet to the foot of the dais and bows to his grandfather. Beside him, Bilbo bows too.

“Hail, Thror son of Dain, King Under the Mountain,” Thorin cries, and stands, husband beside him, to meet his grandfather’s eyes. Above the old dwarf’s head, the Arkenstone gleams; and beside the throne stands Frerin, looking equal parts amused and worried.

“Hail, Thorin, and hail Bilbo Baggins,” replies Thror, and the omission of Thrain’s name echoes through the room. Thror gestures dismissal, and Thorin pulls Bilbo back with him into the crowd, as others come forward to greet and flatter the king.

Thorin finds a table of food, and hands the hobbit a bread-pocket full of spiced meats and a mug of ale. Bilbo is looking rather shocked, as though he had not realized how truly disfavored Thorin and his father are until this moment. Thorin decides to distract his husband, pointing at various members of the court and naming them to Bilbo.

“My father, Thrain; he will come to see us in a bit. My brother, Frerin, there beside the throne, with the fair hair. Balin, son of Fundin – he is Dwalin’s elder brother, and my chief counselor. Borin, son of Nain, one of my father’s counselors. Dori, son of Korin, and his brothers Nori and Ori.”

“I know Ori,” Bilbo pipes up cheerfully. “He was the scribe who came to speak to me.” He waves at the dwarf, and Ori waves back, beaming. Thorin chuckles.

“He will likely be joining our company when we leave for the Shire, he and his brothers,” he tells Bilbo. Bilbo grins.

“Ahem!” says a stern voice behind Thorin, and he turns to embrace his sister. Bilbo gapes a little, and Thorin closes his mouth gently and ushers the hobbit forward.

“My sister,” he says proudly, “Dis daughter of Thrain; and her sons, Fili and Kili.” Fili and Kili bow, though they cannot quite conceal the curious looks they are sending Bilbo.

Dis looks Bilbo over thoroughly, and then nods decisively. “So you’re a hobbit, then.”

“I am, ma’am.” Bilbo looks a little nervous. Dis tends to affect people like that. She’s so very sure of herself. Thorin has occasionally suspected she would make a better king than he would – certainly better than their father would, given how broken Thrain is these days – but Dis seems content to rule her sons with an iron hand and terrify her brothers. Thorin adores her.

“And will your people be glad to see my brother wedded to you, marching over the hills with his rabble to take their mountains?” Dis is not mincing words.

Bilbo swallows, but he stands tall (as tall as he can) before her. “Ma’am, my people would not have sent me if they had not been glad to. We will welcome your brother and his people with open arms into the Shire and into the mountains.”

Dis examines Bilbo for a long moment, and then, suddenly and brilliantly, she smiles and steps forward to embrace him. Bilbo looks at Thorin helplessly as Dis’ arms engulf him. Thorin just shrugs. Dis finally steps back and pats Bilbo hard on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the family, brother-in-law,” she says cheerfully. “I and my sons will be coming to your Shire, and I hope that all hobbits have hearts like yours.” She sails off into the crowd before Thorin can find his voice. Dis, only daughter of the house of Durin, coming on this mad journey?

Bilbo, next to him, laughs a little. “Well, she will certainly set Lobelia on her ear,” he says cheerfully. “And I suspect no one will misbehave on the journey!”

Thorin blinks down at his husband. “I’ve no way to prevent her from coming,” he admits, and then, slowly, “and she will be a great support to me. You’re quite correct, no one misbehaves where Dis can see them.” Bilbo beams up at him, and Thorin feels his heart lighten just that little bit more, knowing his formidable little sister will be beside him.

A dwarf wearing a truly ridiculous hat approaches Thorin slowly, looking as though he is not sure of his welcome. Thorin beckons him, saying, “Hail, friend I do not know.”

The dwarf bows, hat flapping. “Bofur son of Frar, at your service, my prince.” He gestures behind him, and a very plump dwarf and an old dwarf with an axe stuck in his head come forward. “My brother, Bombur, and my cousin, Bifur son of Telchar. We are simple miners, my prince, and we wish to join you on your coming journey.”

Thorin does not beam, because such would be unbecoming of a prince, but he grants them a small bow and smiles as much as is proper. “You are more than welcome to join my company, Bofur and Bombur sons of Frar and Bifur son of Telchar. May I make known to you my consort Bilbo Baggins, who knows the way to the Shire and the Blue Mountains.”

Bilbo bows a little, about as much as Thorin had. He learns quickly. “Hail, friends,” he says cheerfully. “I’m glad to meet you, and glad you’ll be accompanying us!”

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur bow and move away, looking utterly relieved, as though they had expected to be rejected. Bofur is speaking quickly in Khuzdul to Bifur. Thorin puts an arm around his hobbit’s shoulders and does not sigh with thankfulness that there are those who will dare his grandfather’s anger to join him.

A few more dwarves approach them as the evening wears on, and Thorin files the names away in his mind, reciting them carefully: Nain son of Loni, Mim daughter of Nar, Farin and Floi sons of Gror. Miners and guards, who speak in cautious tones of other dwarves who wish to join the company but are too nervous to approach under the baleful glare of the king. Thorin welcomes them and their absent friends, and does not blame them for their caution.

Finally, Thror stands and leaves the hall; his advisors and sycophants take that as their cue to leave en masse. Thorin watches the hall emptying out – many of those exiting do not even glance at him – and when most of the court is gone, Thrain finally comes over.

“My son,” he says warmly, and then, to Bilbo, “and my son’s consort.”

“Good evening,” squeaks Bilbo, evidently rather intimidated by a broad, one-eyed dwarf in full mail and leathers. Thrain never wears anything else to court occasions, not so much to irk Thror but simply because there has been more than one attempt on his life since the Battle of Azanulbizar.

Thrain smiles at him. “I am sorry we have not met under better circumstances,” he says softly, “but I congratulate you on your marriage and wish you every happiness.” He turns to Thorin. “I am told it would be unwise for me to be seen to assist you unduly, lest your honored grandfather think I am fomenting rebellion. I will see you at your departure, my son.”

Thorin winces. Fomenting rebellion? Truly the king has grown paranoid and cruel. Thrain has never been anything but loyal to his father. But there is nothing to be done. “At my departure, then, and not before,” he agrees. “May there be gold in your halls and a keen edge on your axe,” he says, a traditional farewell.

“May all your ventures prosper, and your weapons never break,” Thrain returns, and walks away.

Thorin waits until his father has left, so as to present no appearance of a conspiracy – and how horrible is it, he thinks, that he must fret about such things? – and then ushers his husband towards the door out of the hall. Frerin is waiting for them.

“Brother,” Thorin says warily. He has no reason to fear Frerin, save that Frerin stands at his grandfather’s right hand and is given all the honors that should go by rights to Thrain.

“Brother,” Frerin says sadly. “I wish there were some word I could speak in our grandfather’s ear to convince him not to fear you so, but there is none. My felicitations on your wedding,” and here he bows to Bilbo, “and may your journey be peaceful and prosperous, your new home veined with gold.”

“Thank you,” Thorin says, and walks on. He knows that nothing Frerin could say would change Thror’s mind; but he knows, too, that Frerin has said nothing at all, lest he be accused of treason in turn. Frerin wants the throne – who would not? – and will do nothing to jeopardize his chances. Thorin can understand that, but that does not mean it pleases him.

By the time they reach Thorin’s apartments again, Bilbo and Thorin are both too exhausted to do anything but strip and fall into Thorin’s wide bed. Thorin tucks his hobbit against him like a child’s comfort-creature and falls instantly into sleep. Bilbo lies awake a few minutes, mind whirling; and then the stress of the day catches up to him and he joins his husband in slumber.


	7. In Which There Are Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets his first lesson in swordplay.

In the morning, Thorin sends Bilbo with Dwalin to the armorers to pick up the mail that has been made for him, while Thorin goes to see about provisions, and wagons, and lists of volunteers. As Thorin instructed, the mail shirt is made of mithril. It shines like a star on a clear night, and Bilbo is astonished by it.

Dwalin seems pleased by the armor. “Mithril is the most precious metal, more precious even than gold,” he tells Bilbo, who looks even more taken aback. “Thorin values you highly.”

Bilbo blushes. Dwalin chuckles. “Here,” he says, taking pity on the hobbit, “choose a sword.”

“I’ve no idea how to use one,” Bilbo protests.

“And that is why we’re off to the practice rooms after this, so Prince Thorin and I can instruct you,” Dwalin counters easily. “Pick one which is light enough for you to hold easily, and balances well in your hand. It should feel like an extension of your arm.”

Bilbo picks up several swords, all of which are too heavy and too unwieldy to suit him. One of the armorers, watching the process, makes a small noise of comprehension and goes into the back of the forge, returning with a much smaller, lighter sword in hand. Bilbo thanks him and takes the sword. It does, in fact, feel something like an extension of his arm; it balances well, sitting easily in his hand. “This one,” he tells Dwalin.

The armorer beams and produces a scabbard for the blade. Dwalin nods approvingly and claps Bilbo on the shoulder. “Grand! Now off to the practice rooms with us. Thank you,” he adds to the armorers, and they are off again, Bilbo carrying the sheathed sword a little awkwardly in one hand.

The practice room has windows, which Bilbo appreciates. Much of Erebor is darker and stonier than he prefers. Thorin is waiting for them, standing by a window studying a parchment; he turns when they enter the room, and smiles when he sees Bilbo.

“They did good work,” he says. “The mail suits you.”

“I feel like I’m dressed up for a Midwinter Play,” Bilbo says plaintively, “and I’ve no clue what to do with this sword.” He hefts it gracelessly.

Thorin steps forward to correct Bilbo’s grip, and Dwalin quietly slips out of the room, closing the door and leaning on it.

Bilbo is clumsier than the youngest dwarf, but then Thorin has been getting the impression that hobbits simply do not like to fight. No member of a warrior race would have crossed the Misty Mountains without armor, wizard or no wizard. The clothing Bilbo brought with him is the sort Thorin has seen on the prosperous men of Dale, the ones who have never held sword or axe in their lives.

But he is stubborn, Bilbo is, and by the end of an hour he’s holding the sword properly and has at least mastered the idea that the pointed end should go into his opponent. He’s not happy, Thorin can tell that easily enough, but he’s trying hard. The expression of fierce concentration on his face is oddly sweet, really.

When Bilbo masters a simple block, Thorin steps back and nods approvingly, and Bilbo beams at him, that wide marvelous smile which makes Thorin want to do nothing more than kiss his husband senseless. And, well, there’s no one else in the room, and Dwalin is guarding the door; Thorin steps forward, plucks the sword from Bilbo’s hand, pins him against the wall, and kisses him.

Bilbo makes a sound of surprise, but after the initial moment of shock he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Thorin’s braids and kisses back, hard and happy. When Thorin finally breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against the hobbit’s, Bilbo grins up at him.

“If you’re going to kiss me like that every time I get something right, I’ll be a master swordsman in no time!”

Thorin chuckles and kisses his husband again. Swordplay can wait a while; for now there is a little hobbit in gleaming mail to kiss, and kiss, and kiss some more, until Bilbo’s cheeks are flushed and his knees are weak and he is smiling into Thorin’s eyes, and Thorin is content.

*

Ori is looking for the Prince Consort. There were several things Bilbo said yesterday that Ori wants clarification on, and if he’s to be going along to the Blue Mountains, it’s only sensible for him – and the Prince! – to know everything they can about hobbits.

“Is the Prince Consort within?” he asks Dwalin, who nods.

“He should emerge shortly; the Prince has a lunch meeting with his advisors. But I would not advise entering.”

Ori cocks his head questioningly, and Dwalin smirks. “They’re either using live steel or…otherwise occupied.” Ori is baffled for a second, and then flushes a deep red. Dwalin grins, then seems to take pity on the younger dwarf. “What have you learned of hobbits?” he asks conversationally.

Ori recovers from his blush and looks down at his notebook. “Well, they eat seven meals a day,” he offers.

Dwalin gapes. “They do? Where does it all _fit_?”

Ori giggles. “I asked the Prince Consort the same thing! He says they have enormous families, too…maybe hobbits are larger on the inside?”

Dwalin laughs aloud. Ori beams with pride.

When Bilbo emerges from the practice room, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are red. His curly hair is tousled. Thorin, behind him, looks almost mellow. Dwalin smirks at his prince as Ori and Bilbo walk away, already chattering about second breakfast and lack of beards.

“A good bout of swordplay, then, my prince?” Dwalin murmurs. Thorin cannot muster any response but a weak glare. Dwalin grins widely and follows his prince down the hallways to the meeting, reflecting that the precipitous marriage to Bilbo Baggins certainly seems to have been good for Thorin, imminent exile notwithstanding.


	8. In Which The Company Departs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They leave the Mountain at last!

The next ten days pass in a flurry of packing and organization. Thorin takes every opportunity he can to kiss his hobbit, but he is too busy to do much more than that. By the end of every day, Thorin is so exhausted that he can do little but cuddle his hobbit to him and fall into dreams. Someday, he promises himself, they will be someplace safe and warm and have nothing else to do but enjoy each other. That day, sadly, looks farther off with every passing hour.

Finally, the day of their departure arrives. Ponies with unladen wagons have been sent around the edge of the Long Lake, to meet the boats full of dwarves (and one hobbit) at the entrance to the Greenwood. Messengers have been sent to King Thranduil, who promises to send envoys to escort the dwarves through the forest. Bilbo has been completely outfitted in leather and mail, as befits the husband of a dwarven prince, though he protests every step of the way and downright refuses to consider shoes. He has his little sword strapped to his side, though Thorin knows that Bilbo is nowhere near ready for battle.

The chosen dwarves gather at the entrance to Erebor, where Thrain and Frerin wait to see them off. Thror’s absence is likely a calculated slight, but Thorin cannot help but be grateful for it; it will be hard enough to leave his home without his grandfather’s glowering and cruel words. Bilbo stands flanked by Dwalin and Ori, a strange trio; near them, Dori and Nori bicker amiably, Bofur offers a toy axe to young Gimli, Dis corrals her rowdy sons, and Bombur speaks to Bifur in Khuzdul. Thorin has learned that the axe in Bifur’s head, gained at the Battle of Azanulbizar, took his knowledge of the common tongue and makes him prone to berserking. There are worse traits.

Thorin adds ‘speaking Khuzdul’ to his growing list of things he needs to teach his husband at some point. Having a prince of dwarves who does not know their tongue would be dishonorable. Thorin decides he will enlist Ori to help; Bilbo seems to have made fast friends with the scribe, and the task will give Ori honor and status.

Young Lord Bard of Dale comes to meet them, bringing the boatmen who will take them down the Long Lake. Their baggage has already been loaded in the hours before dawn; it only remains for the dwarves to march through Dale and down to the shore. To leave Erebor, perhaps forever. Thorin looks up at his grandfather’s mountain and takes a deep breath, then strides over to his father and brother, and bows.

“I take my leave of you,” he says. “May your halls be full of gold.”

“May all your ventures prosper,” Frerin says solemnly, “and may your journey be swift and safe, your people fertile and strong.”

Thrain nods. “May the mountains embrace you, and the veins of gold be wide and rich,” he adds. Thorin looks at his relatives for a long moment, imprinting the image of them in his mind, then bows again and turns back to the gathered dwarves – his people, now. Not his grandfather’s: _his_.

“Dwarves of the Blue Mountains,” he cries, and suppresses a grin of triumph when his people look up at him, “we depart!” As one, the company bows. Thorin strides to his place at the head of the party and nods to Bard, who nods back and leads off. Behind them, the dwarves of Erebor call blessings and farewells; but Thorin does not turn to look. Forward is the only way open to him, and he will not falter.

Dwarves are not terribly comfortable on boats, which is why the men of Dale bring them down the Long Lake to the mouth of the Forest River. There are elves waiting for them, and the ponies and wagons which were sent along earlier. Thorin brings Bilbo over to the elves once they disembark. Behind them, the men of Dale and the dwarves begin loading the wagons.

Thorin is prepared to be civil – after all, the elves _are_ doing a favor to his people – but it turns out to be completely unnecessary. Bilbo beams when he sees the elves, and hurries forward, crying, “Prince Legolas! How good to see you again!”

The elven prince smiles back at the hobbit, and bows a little to him. “Master Baggins! Or is it now Prince Consort Baggins?”

“I think it’s Prince Consort,” Bilbo says cheerfully. “Have you met my husband, Prince Thorin son of Thrain?” Then, to Thorin, “Was that correct?”

“Completely,” Thorin tells him. “We shall make a dwarf of you in no time.” He bows to the smiling elf. “Hail, Prince Legolas. I and my people thank you for your aid.”

“Hail, Prince Thorin,” Legolas replies. “I and my people are glad to give assistance to you – and especially to your charming consort!”

Bilbo laughs, and begins to chatter with the elves about his recent experiences in Erebor, with – Thorin cannot help but notice – frequent flattering assessments of Thorin’s own hospitality. Thorin decides that discretion is the better part of valor, and stands behind his husband with a calm face, listening to Bilbo babble and laugh. Perhaps he will let Bilbo do all the dealing with elves.

At last the wagons are loaded, most with food and trade goods and weapons, some with young dwarves and mothers. Gimli sits high on the seat of the first wagon, and Gloin stands beside it beaming with pride. Legolas gestures, and his elves fan out to surround the caravan. Legolas bows to Thorin.

“At your command, then, Prince Thorin.”

Thorin bows back, and turns to his people. “We march!” he cries, and the caravan begins to move. Thorin and Bilbo and Legolas stride at its head. Thorin can hear Gloin encouraging his son, who is learning to steer the wagon; Dis haranguing Kili, who apparently wants to go talk to an elf about bows; Bifur muttering to Balin in Khuzdul; but above them all rises Bilbo’s happy chatter and the rumbling of wagon wheels.

Thorin is glad when they are under the dim green light of the Greenwood, sheltered by its immense trees. Not because he is fond of forests – rather the contrary, in fact, he finds being surrounded by wood instead of stone to be utterly unnatural – but because there is no way he can look back at Erebor now. Better to behave as though Erebor has ceased to exist than to continue tormenting himself with thoughts of the Lonely Mountain and its gems. Better to listen to Bilbo chatter along merrily than think about what he has lost.


	9. In Which The Greenwood Is Traversed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company and their elven escorts get through the woods...eventually.

It takes more than a fortnight for the caravan to pass through the Greenwood, and for the most part the journey is uneventful. By day the Greenwood is full of the chatter of birds and the rustle of leaves, and the path is dim and greenly lit. The elves fade in and out of the forest, though Legolas stays at the front of the caravan with Thorin and Bilbo. The dwarves talk amongst themselves, meeting the people with whom they will be spending the rest of their lives, if all goes well. There are some two hundred dwarves in the company: miners who found Erebor’s mines too crowded, guards who followed Dwalin when he chose to leave, scribes and healers tired of being assistants to assistants in a stagnant court, and families with small children who found Thror’s gold-madness terrifying. Some are loyal to Thorin for his blood, some merely wish to leave Erebor under the auspices of an official colony. Thorin knows he will have to prove himself to many of them, lest he become a figurehead king. He is confident in his ability to do so, however: is he not of Durin’s line?

During the evenings, Thorin enlists Dwalin and Ori to help teach Bilbo swordwork and Khuzdul respectively. Ori spends the time while Dwalin is teaching Bilbo sitting beside Thorin, explaining what he has learned about hobbits and the Shire. Dwalin spends the time while Ori teaches sitting beside Thorin, watching Ori. Thorin does not tease his old friend about Dwalin’s clear interest in the younger dwarf: teasing about a passing dalliance is one thing, but Thorin knows Dwalin well enough to tell that what Dwalin wants with Ori is more than that. Instead of teasing, Thorin pores over maps of the lands ahead, tracing passes through the Misty Mountains and planning garrison locations in the Shire.

Gimli, Fili, and Kili band together and spend their days harassing the adult dwarves and trying to harass the elves, who mostly fade into the trees when they see the young dwarves coming. Prince Legolas seems to find them amusing, however, and with Bilbo as willing go-between, Legolas and the dwarves begin to form a strange and tentative friendship. Thorin stays well out of the way during their conversations; on the one hand, he would prefer that his sister-sons not befriend _elves_ , but on the other hand, forbidding them from doing so is as likely to backfire as not. Bilbo is so happy to see them getting along, and in truth it is not a bad idea for the princes of the Blue Mountains – Thorin’s heirs – to form alliances with the elven folk. Thorin carefully thinks of it as ‘forming alliances,’ and does not interfere.

They are a week into the Greenwood, moving through a valley full of old, dark oaks, when the spiders attack. The only warning they have is the scream of an elf from one side of the caravan; and then the spiders are dropping from the trees and in among the wagons, and the ponies are shying and whinnying in terror, and the babies (there are only three in the company) begin to wail.

Thorin is walking some distance behind Bilbo and Legolas, chatting with Dwalin. He glances forward to see the elf and the hobbit back-to-back, each with a drawn sword in hand; but then there are spiders closing in on him and Dwalin, and the screams from the caravan make it clear that not everyone is faring well against the unexpected enemy. Thorin draws his axe and beheads the first spider, and then he and Dwalin head for the caravan, for the wagon with the children in it, moving like the long-practiced team they are.

It is long minutes later, with the carcasses of giant spiders littering the path and the axes of the dwarves dripping with black blood, that Thorin manages to find a clear space to turn and look for his husband. To his astonished relief, Bilbo is neither injured nor cowering in fear; instead, he stands with the elven prince in the middle of a ring of slain spiders. There is one spider yet alive, facing Bilbo across the cleared space; as Thorin watches, Bilbo raises his free hand in a taunting gesture. The spider lunges; Bilbo ducks under its fangs and brings his little sword up into its carapace, spitting it neatly and then dodging away. The spider topples.

Thorin gapes. His soft little hobbit husband – his Bilbo, who had never held a sword before their wedding – has clearly been responsible for many of the corpses which surround him and the elf. Legolas turns from surveying the forest and claps a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, crying, “Why, you are a fine little warrior, my friend!”

Bilbo grins wearily up at him. “I…well. What a mess!”

Then Thorin reaches them, and snatches his husband into his arms, patting his limbs to make sure there are no injuries and then burying his face in Bilbo’s curly hair. Bilbo hugs back, a little awkwardly with the filthy sword still in his hand. “I’m alright,” he says, muffled by Thorin’s chest. “Really, I’m fine.”

Thorin pulls back and looks his husband in the eye. “You are more than fine,” he says. “You are _magnificent_.”

Bilbo blushes crimson. Dwalin and Fili and Kili arrive, crowding around to slap Bilbo on the back and laugh with relief. Legolas goes striding into the forest, and the dwarves can hear his sharp words. Thorin does not speak Elvish, but he is willing to wager quite a lot that Legolas is taking his people to task for their lack of vigilance. He would be doing the same in the elven prince’s place. But it is not his place to scold the elves; instead, he turns back to the wagons, walking the length of the caravan to make sure no one is seriously injured, or poisoned, dead, or missing. By a minor miracle, everyone is well; the worst injuries are scratches and a few bites, all of which are being tended already by Oin and the other healers. Thorin sees young Ori, a too-heavy warhammer in his hands, standing beside his brothers, looking flushed and triumphant. There are several crushed spiders on the ground nearby. Thorin looks a little more closely at the warhammer, and hides his grin: it is one of Dwalin’s.

Thankfully, the spiders do not attack again. Legolas sends off messengers to his father’s court, and assures Thorin that a full company of elves will be sent to destroy the spiders’ nests. The elves had not thought the spiders would be so bold, nor that they were so numerous. Thorin points out, with some pride, that there are many fewer spiders now than there were a few days ago, and Legolas laughs and replies jokingly that perhaps the elves should enlist more hobbits for their spider-killing needs. Thorin finds himself laughing at an elvish joke, and does not quite know what to do with himself for a moment. Bilbo, beside them, blushes again and protests that his people are not warlike, that he only has a sword at all because Thorin insisted!

“It is a good thing I did,” Thorin replies, and then, just because he can, he kisses Bilbo, there at the front of the caravan with the prince of the elves looking on. “There,” he says, as Bilbo gapes, “a reward for your valor.”

Bilbo’s laugh rings out over the forest, and Thorin thinks that he may be prouder of the laugh than of the spiders who fell before his blade.

They are most of the way through the Greenwood when the oddest thing happens: the birds go silent, and all the ponies stop dead in their tracks and fling up their heads. Then there is a moment as though they are at the center of a great, soundless bell which has just been struck. The ground seems to shake, and Bilbo clutches at Thorin’s arm and plants his sturdy, furry feet in the dirt of the path. A babe in the caravan begins to wail. Then it is over; the ponies drop their heads to mouth at the bits, and the birds begin to sing again. The baby’s mother shushes it. Bilbo and Thorin and Legolas look at each other in blank confusion.

At last Legolas shrugs. “I do not know,” he says, “what may have caused that; but since there seems to be no immediate effect, we should proceed.”

Thorin agrees, but he posts guards that night and every night thereafter. It may have been nothing; and then again, it may not.


	10. In Which The Company Crosses The Misty Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in summer, it's cold at the tops of the Misty Mountains.

The Misty Mountains loom tall before them when Legolas and his people leave them at the edge of the Greenwood. Legolas departs with many assurances of alliance and friendship – most of them to Bilbo – and Bilbo is wonderfully diplomatic in reply. Thorin is civil. Two weeks with an elf’s company is not nearly enough to overcome a hundred and ninety years of animosity. Still, Legolas has been a good companion to them, and so Thorin is civil.

The pass which Gandalf brought Bilbo over, less than a month ago, is far south from the entrance to the Greenwood. The dwarves march swiftly over the grassy plains, and Thorin enjoys the long sight-lines and the ability to keep an eye on his entire caravan, no winding forest roads to block his view. Dis sometimes comes to walk beside him, asking Bilbo questions about the Shire which Thorin is a little too conscious of his position to ask himself. It would not do for a prince to seem ignorant, after all; but there is no rule that he cannot listen as Bilbo and Dis chatter on about child-rearing and mealtimes, growing seasons and harvest festivals. Dis teases him for his reticence, but Thorin is really just as glad to be silent, to not be the center of attention.

Fili and Kili and Gimli have become nearly inseparable, and they roam about the caravan, sometimes racing ahead to climb hills and look out over the coming lands, sometimes ranging to one side or another and returning with rabbits for the stewpots and tales of giant deer which were nearly caught. Thorin carefully does not laugh the day they return soaking wet from an expedition to the river, all swearing up and down that the fish which escaped their makeshift nets was bigger than the wagons. Dis, however, roars with laughter, and re-braids her sons’ hair while Bilbo spreads their wet clothes in front of the fire and chuckles to himself. Thorin, watching the scene, feels suddenly and astonishingly as though he is at home – as though, despite the fact that they are in the middle of nowhere, caught between Erebor and the Misty Mountains with a long journey yet before them, he is in exactly the right place.

At last they reach the ford which leads to the pass, and Thorin orders his sister-sons to stay with the caravan. Bilbo and Gandalf were not troubled when they passed through the mountains, but Gandalf is a wizard of great power, and they were two travelers moving swiftly. Gandalf apparently bore Bilbo ahead of him on his horse. (Bilbo does not like to talk about it.) Thorin tells his people to keep their axes close to hand, to keep their children as silent as possible and their wagons close together. Dwalin organizes the guards among them into a tight cordon around the wagons, in three shifts of morning, evening, and night so that there are always eyes and ears open and wary.

Bilbo and Dis, to Thorin’s pleasure, take on the task of organizing the miners and smiths, the mothers and their young children. Dis uses her sons as messengers, sending them from one end of the caravan to the other on errands. They obey her unquestioningly: Dis is, Thorin knows, not easy to disobey. Bilbo takes Gimli under his wing, leaving Gloin and his wife free to join the guards. Gloin’s wife is a quiet dwarf with a long red beard braided with golden beads. She is also faster with an axe than anyone in the company except perhaps Dwalin. Her name is Niri. Gloin adores her, and can often be overheard telling his son to observe his mother’s form and technique: is she not marvelous? Gimli can hardly dream of a better role model.

Under Dis’ stern organization, the civilians keep themselves in good order. The children and their mothers are in the wagons in the center of caravan, with the food near them and the weapons on the ends, easiest for the guards at point and rear to grab. All of the civilians have some sort of weapon, of course – the dwarf concept of ‘civilian’ is a very loose one – and they keep them near to hand and well-sharpened. Bilbo and Dis march beside the wagon carrying the children, with young Ori beside them. Ori has blossomed since the battle with the spiders. His elder brothers were apparently astonished by his near-berserk courage with the too-big warhammer, and Dori can be seen to be giving his youngest brother mildly bewildered glances even after so many days.

The air grows colder as they climb into the mountains, and the rocky path is only just wide enough for the wagons in some places. The sheer drops to one side and another give some of the dwarves vertigo. Unseasonably flurries of snow make the way slippery on some days; on others, thunderstorms stop the ponies stop in their tracks. Dis assigns a dwarf to walk beside each pony to make sure they do not take it into their heads to bolt at a sudden noise or fall of stones.

Thorin wraps his husband in his fur coat as they sit beside the fire on the first cold night, and murmurs, “I promise to keep you warm in winter.” Bilbo beams up at him, huddled but happy, and across the fire Dis makes a soft sound. Thorin ignores her.

Halfway through the mountains, the caravan is halted by a tremendous thunderstorm. There is no shelter near enough to reach, so they huddle around the wagons and blindfold the ponies, stroking their necks and murmuring nonsense words into their anxiously flicking ears. It is Bilbo who sees the stone giants first: he cries out, pointing and clutching at Thorin’s arm. Thorin stares through the driving rain and gapes in astonished horror.

The giants are as tall as mountains – are made of mountains. They loom, and boom with laughter or fury; Thorin cannot tell which. The dwarves stare up in terror, hoping against hope that their caravan will be too insignificant for the giants to notice. At first, the giants merely stand and boom across the valley at each other; then, suddenly, one seems to take offense. It snatches a great boulder from the side of a mountain and hurls it at another.

In moments all of the giants are flinging boulders. The dwarves cling to each other. Fili and Kili and Gimli are tangled together so closely it is impossible to see whose beard is whose. Dis stands behind her sons, straight and strong, with her hands on their shoulders, but Thorin can see the fear in her tense arms. Thorin himself wraps his arms around his husband, covering them both in his fur coat, and just hangs on. If they are to die here, he will die first, protecting the hobbit.

The morning dawns bright and clear, the storm having blown itself out. The stone giants have retired to wherever stone giants sleep. The dwarves of the caravan, eyes bleary from lack of sleep and clothing soaked with freezing rain, make haste to move on. None of them wants to stay in the mountains any longer than is absolutely necessary. Thorin and Dis do not even have to chivvy them along: instead they must make sure that no one is driving the ponies too hard. Bilbo walks with Fili and Kili and Gimli, telling soft jokes and stories to distract them from the terror of the night before. Thorin sees the other children and their mothers listening in on Bilbo’s monologue, sees the fear ebbing from them with the distraction, and is grateful, yet again, for the husband he has been given.


	11. In Which The Wargs Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one expected to get out of the Misty Mountains unscathed.

They are nearly out of the foothills when the attack they have all been expecting happens. It is not orcs, which surprises Thorin when he has time to think of it. Instead, it is a large and ferocious pack of wargs.

The attack comes at dusk, and at the changing of the guard. It is only luck that one of the guards is facing the right direction, but luck is with them: the guard cries out, “Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-Menu!” and leaps forward towards the wolves. Behind him, the other guards turn as well hefting their axes; and from the caravan come boiling the off-duty guards. Dis and the civilians gather around the children’s wagons, axes and swords and hammers in hand, and Thorin spares a single glance for his sister and husband and sister-sons before he is leaping forward himself, Dwalin at his side.

The wargs are large as ponies, and fierce. Thorin finds himself fighting with Dwalin and Gloin in a tight triangle, each guarding the others’ backs. Dwalin’s hoarse cries of fury are familiar, and Gloin, when Thorin can hear him, appears to be chanting the names of his wife and son in time with the blows of his axe. Thorin himself is silent as he fights. His father insisted that he learn to be so: yelling is a waste of breath.

One by one the wargs fall, and the dwarves begin to draw back into a line in front of the wagons, tightening their formation and pushing the wounded behind them. Thorin dashes warg blood from his eyes and strikes blindly at the enemy; he is suddenly glad of the spiders, which taught his people to fight together.

At last there are no more wargs in front of him; but behind him, from the wagons, he hears a loud cry of fear. Thorin whirls, panicked, to see the last warg, a giant white thing with the scars of old wounds on its shoulders, facing the last line of defense before the children’s wagon: Dis, and Niri, and Bilbo. Thorin is too far away to reach them in time.

The two female dwarves leap in front of Bilbo, axes flashing. Niri is beautiful in the dim light, whirling her weapons like a berserker, beard ornaments shining. Dis is her shadow, sturdy feet well-planted. Thorin remembers her learning to smith, knows the strength in her shoulders and the stubbornness in her soul. They strike as one: a dwarven axe to each shoulder of the warg, and the animal howls, injured but by no means slain.

And then Bilbo is there, quick-footed and agile as dwarves cannot be, slipping between the dwarves as they distract the beast, his little sword flashing as he brings it up into the creature’s heart. It looks as though they have practiced the maneuver, though Thorin knows they haven’t – Thorin decides abruptly that they should do so, in the future.

The warg falls, Dis pulling Bilbo out of the way of its corpse, and Thorin’s world speeds up again. He sprints across the grass to his husband and sister, faintly noticing Gloin beside him, and gathers them both into his arms. Next to them, Gloin and Niri embrace.

Dis hugs Thorin back for a moment, then pushes free, leaving only Bilbo in his arms. She is laughing a little. “I would not let your hobbit come to harm, brother mine.”

“I know,” Thorin mutters into his husband’s hair. “I thank you, sister.”

Dis laughs again and pats his shoulder, then goes to see to the wounded. There are several, Thorin knows, and in a moment he will have to go himself to see that none of them will die of their wounds, or to arrange mourning if they will. But he takes a moment to hold on to his husband, uncaring of the warg blood on their clothing and skin. Twice now he has nearly seen Bilbo die at the fangs and claws of a wild beast, and twice now the little sword his husband bears has saved him. Thorin does not particularly wish to know if the third time will break the trend.

After a long moment, Thorin lets go of Bilbo and turns to see to his people. Bilbo goes back to the wagons, to soothe the children and the mothers and to organize the setting-up of tents and pallets for the wounded. Thorin is astonished to discover that there are no dead among his people: even the guard who saw the wargs first, who charged them without backup or plan, is merely wounded, a long scratch down his leg which missed the vein. Thorin praises his vigilance and courage, and leaves the dwarf smiling on his pallet despite the pain. Dwalin has already gone to arrange for the carcasses of the wargs to be dragged away from the camp, and Gloin is helping his elder brother Oin in caring for the wounded. For a people locked in desperate battle mere hours before, the dwarves seem very peaceful now.

Thorin is sure that this is down to the influence of two of his companions: Dis, whose firm voice rises over the moans of the wounded, directing the civilians in their tasks; and Bilbo, who bustles about with bowls of soup and poultices and sensible advice. “Lie still,” he tells the wounded, and “Don’t look at me, look that way!” to the guards on watch who stare at him as he comes by. At last he settles by the fire and gathers the children around him, with Gimli and Fili and Kili a little ways away, listening intently but too proud to join the circle, and begins to tell a tale to distract them from their fear.

“Many years ago, when the world was new and the gods still walked among their peoples,” Bilbo begins, and Thorin drifts a little nearer, noticing Dis doing the same thing and the conversation among the other dwarves hushes to nothing, “there was a little people, smaller than any other people in the world. Their feet were furry and their ears were pointed, and they were as silent as snow falling on stone when they wished to be.”

One of the little dwarves squeaks, “Hobbits!” Bilbo laughs.

“Yes, they were called hobbits. Now, because they were so small, and because they were not warriors like the dwarves, nor immortal like the elves, nor clever makers of machines like the men, they were very afraid in the wide world. For there were wolves to hunt them, and eagles which thought a hobbit was the right size for dinner, and bears and trolls and many fierce creatures which the hobbit feared. Even dwarves seemed large to them, with their mail and axes, and men and elves were far worse!”

The little dwarves nudge each other and grin at being thought large. Thorin and Dis exchange a glance, and move to lean against each other, still listening intently.

“So the hobbits banded together, and they went out into the world to seek out a safe place where they could live in peace, growing their gardens and tending their farms and never worrying about war again. They traveled over mountains and through forests, and they met with men and elves and dwarves and even stranger peoples who have since vanished from the world. Many of them began to despair that there was any place which might shelter them.”

The little dwarves huddle closer to Bilbo, and the smallest one cries, “But they found somewhere, right, Mister Bilbo?”

Bilbo smiles. “Yes, they did. After many years, tired almost to death, the hobbits came over a hill and saw before them a wide green land, with rolling hills and calm rivers, sheltered on all sides with trees and mountains. The land was warm in the summer and cool in the winter, and beautiful in all seasons, and no other people lived there. The hobbits came down into their new land with tears and rejoicing, and named it the Shire. And there the hobbits have lived since that time, in peace and prosperity, with gardens under every window.”

“Is that where we’re going, Mister Bilbo?” asks the talkative dwarfling, and Bilbo nods.

“Yes, that’s where we’re going right now. And then, once we’ve met with the Thains of the Shire, we will go on to the great mountains next to the Shire, and your Prince will build new homes for you there, and you will grow up to be big strong dwarves like your parents!”

The young dwarves cheer, and Thorin hides his face against Dis’ shoulder for a moment so that the tears he knows are in his eyes do not show in the firelight. Dis, for once, says nothing, and Thorin is grateful for her forbearance. At last he lifts his dry face and goes over to his husband, who is sitting quietly watching the young dwarves curl up to sleep. Thorin sits beside Bilbo.

“I will build new homes for them, will I?”

“Yes,” says Bilbo, simply, and leans against Thorin and stares into the fire. Thorin drapes an arm around his hobbit’s shoulders and hides his smile in Bilbo’s hair. Yes. He will build them new homes, beside a green and pleasant land.


	12. In Which Thorin Meets The Thains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every hobbit meeting comes with a meal.

Four days after the warg attack, the caravan reaches the Shire. The approach is much like Bilbo’s story, in fact: the dwarves top another rolling hill and see, before them, green fields stretching away, crossed by small lanes and streams, with hills and houses dotting the landscape. Far off, across the green expanse, the Blue Mountains can be faintly seen as a smudge against the horizon. Thorin has to admit that the Shire is an attractive land.

“There are ten Thains of the Shire,” Bilbo explains – again – as he, Thorin, and Dis approach Took Hall. The rest of the caravan remains on the hill at the edge of the Shire, politely waiting until the Thains have met with the Prince and the treaty has been acknowledged. It would not do to frighten or insult the people of the Shire, after all. Dwalin’s glowering presence at Thorin’s back is apparently worrisome enough to the hobbits they pass, though Ori’s cheerful expression does seem to mitigate the worry somewhat, and the sight of Bilbo, in his proper hobbit clothing, is quite reassuring. Some of the hobbits have even called greetings to Bilbo, who returns them happily.

“Ten Thains,” Thorin agrees. “Which are something like princes?”

“A little like, although the Thains do not have as much power as princes do, I think,” Bilbo replies. “They have already agreed to the contract, so I do not think this meeting should be more than a bare formality; but we will probably have lunch, which will be nice!” Thorin smothers a chuckle.

As they near Took Hall, more hobbits appear, lining the lanes to look at their guests. Thorin can hear them muttering about the dwarves’ mail and beards, the axes on their backs and the boots on their feet. He ignores the muttering stoically. Bilbo bore worse, he reminds himself, and bore it well.

It is when they have almost reached the Hall that Thorin’s dignity finally cracks. A tiny hobbit lass, no higher than his knee, comes running out into the road. The dwarves stop, not willing to risk harming the little creature. She is holding a circlet of flowers in her hands. She beams up at Thorin, and says, lisping a little, “Mister Dwarf! I maded you a crown!” She holds it up, clearly expecting Thorin to take it.

Something in Thorin’s chest seems to break, and he goes down on one knee in front of the hobbit lass and bends his head so she can place the crown upon it. Then, standing, he bows to her. “Thank you, my lady,” he says gravely, and she laughs a high childish laugh and scampers off into the crowd. The gathered hobbits murmur something that seems to be approval, and Bilbo loops his arm through Thorin’s and draws him on toward the Hall.

“It’s really quite becoming,” Bilbo tells Thorin cheerfully. “The little blue flowers bring out your eyes!” Behind them, Dwalin is unsuccessfully smothering his chuckles, and Dis makes a cooing sound that is usually directed towards infants. Thorin sighs, and hope the Thains will not be too contemptuous of his new adornment – but how could he have disappointed the child?

When they finally reach the great dining room of the Hall, where the Thains are waiting, Thorin is amused and relieved to see that almost half of them are _also_ wearing flower crowns. The oldest Thain comes forward to greet Thorin, grinning widely. “I see young Angelica got to you, too!” he says gleefully. The old Thain is wearing a yellow-and-pink circlet of flowers on his own white hair.

Thorin nods solemnly. “She greeted us on the road,” he agrees. “I am Thorin son of Thrain, prince of the line of Durin; may I make known to you also Dis daughter of Thrain, my sister, Dwalin son of Fundin, the captain of my guard, and Ori son of Korin, chief among my scribes; and of course my consort and your countryman, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo beams. “Gerontius!” he says happily. “It is so good to see you again!”

The old Thain embraces Bilbo. “And you, you young reprobate!” he growls. “Have they been good to you?”

Bilbo nods. “I am very happy,” he tells Gerontius, and Thorin is suddenly relieved of a weight he did not even know he was carrying.

Another Thain, who looks much like Bilbo, hurries forward to embrace him. “Drogo!” cries Bilbo joyfully. “And how is the Baggins, then?”

Thorin realizes abruptly – and from her soft oath, so does Dis – that Bilbo Baggins of the Shire is related to one of the Thains. Drogo’s reply – “I wish you’d take the title back, Bilbo; what a marvelous hassle it all is!” – is even more of a shock. Bilbo was a Thain, before he came to Erebor? Thorin glances at Dis, who shakes her head; she had not known either.

“Be welcome,” Gerontius says to Thorin. “I am Gerontius Took; my companions are the Thains Brandybuck of Buckland, Proudfoot, Chubb, Grubb, Boffin, Burrows, Bolger, and Hornblower, and of course Baggins.” Thorin bows again, and they are ushered to the table. Thain Took picks up a bell from the table in front of him and rings it; instantly a door at the back of the room opens and a line of hobbits bearing platters of food enter.

Thorin had not expected there to be food at a solemn political meeting, but he realizes he should have: these are hobbits, after all. Bilbo exclaims beside him at some of the delicacies presented, and Ori stares with blank incomprehension at the array of vegetables. Thorin eats what is Bilbo puts in front of him, and it is all delicious and well-prepared. When the table has been cleared again, the Thains lean back and cross their hands over their stomachs and smile.

“So,” says Gerontius, who is apparently their spokesman, “as we understand our treaty, you will be settling in the Blue Mountains, but leaving a small garrison behind in the Shire?”

“Yes,” Thorin agrees. “Since the mountains and the garrison will be rather far apart, it would be good if you could perhaps see your way to setting up a line of waystations, each with ponies and a few caretakers, between the two, so that a messenger can reach from the garrison to the mountains swiftly. Of course, if you accede, once we have settled in we can build signal towers, but to begin with ponies will be easiest.”

Gerontius and the other Thains nod. “A reasonable and sensible request,” Gerontius replies. “We will also supply your garrison with cooks, if you like, and there are several young hobbits, newly come to their majority, who would be pleased to scout for your dwarves while they are learning the lay of the land.”

Thorin nods. “That would all be eminently agreeable,” he says.

“Then there is the matter of the food we have undertaken to supply,” Gerontius continues. “How many dwarves have you?”

“Two hundred and ten,” replies Thorin, “and of course one hobbit.” Bilbo laughs, and so do the Thains.

“Well, that’s not too bad at all,” Gerontius declares, “it’ll hardly cut into the warehouses at all. Boffin, you and Proudfoot have the most on hand; can you have the first wagons ready to roll within a week?”

Boffin and Proudfoot nod solemnly. “Not a problem,” says the one Thorin thinks is Boffin. “We figured you’d ask, and we have the goods ready to load.”

“Good!” says the Took, and grins at Thorin. “Can you lot hold out another week?”

“Certainly,” Thorin replies instantly. “We’ve food for at least three more weeks, without cutting rations. And it will take us several days to reach the mountains, I expect.”

“Three or four, I should think,” Gerontius agrees. “Well then! Is there any other business?”

Scant minutes later, the dwarves are out in the lane again. Apparently hobbits do not stand on ceremony too much. Thorin thinks he rather likes the Thains, all things considered. Beside him, Bilbo takes a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’d want to make a short detour and see Bag End?” he asks tentatively.

Thorin smiles down at his husband. “Certainly, we can do so. Dwalin, go back to the caravan and get them moving; we’ll catch up down the road. I do not think I will be in any danger here.” Dwalin bows and strides away, and Bilbo leads Thorin and Dis and Ori down another lane, towards a low hill with a green door in it and wide gardens all around.


	13. In Which Thorin Visits Bag End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, since it's right next door anyhow, might as well visit.

Bilbo relaxes noticeably as the little party walks up the lane to Bag End. Thorin can see his shoulders go back, his stride get longer and easier. It is clear that Bilbo knows every step on the road, every stone and rut and grassy clump along the verge, and is comfortable here. Thorin is struck by a wave of guilt: this is what Thror took from Bilbo, with the contract; and this is what Thorin must continue to keep from Bilbo, for the consort must live with the prince, and so Bilbo must come to the Blue Mountains.

As they reach the gate to Bag End, a hobbit pops out from around the hill and beams at them. “Mister Bilbo!” he cries, “You’re home!”

“Hamfast!” replies Bilbo joyfully. “Oh, it’s good to see you. The gardens look wonderful.” He gestures to the dwarves behind him. “I’ve brought my new family to see Bag End; we’ll be keeping it as a summer home, so no fear of it being sold off.” Thorin feels warm all over: Bilbo’s new family! Yes, that is what they are.

Hamfast, who is apparently the gardener, nods agreeably. “Well, and that’s fine news, Mister Bilbo!” He hurries to open the gate and usher them in, and produces a key from the pocket of his apron, handing it to Bilbo. “The missus comes up once a week to do the dusting, just as you asked,” he tells Bilbo, “and it’s all tidy as you left it.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo says gratefully, and goes up the steps to unlock the green door of his home. Thorin admires the workmanship: the house is clearly built into the hill, excavated into it, and any dwarf knows that dirt is harder to work with than stone.

The hole, when Bilbo ushers his guests in, is a long tunnel with doors off of both sides, paneled in wood and hung with tapestries and adorned with chests and chairs and the brick-a-brack of a gentlehobbit’s life. Bilbo closes the door behind them and leads them to the parlor, which has a deep-set window looking out over the gardens. Bilbo sits in the chair nearest the window with a deep sigh of contentment.

“I grew up here,” he tells Thorin as the dwarves sit – rather gingerly – in the hobbit-sized chairs. Apparently hobbit workmanship is good, because the chairs creak a little but do not break. “My father built it when my mother promised to marry him. Drogo lives in Baggins Hall, down the way a bit; but my father was so over the moon when my mother finally consented, that nothing would do but a brand-new hole in the finest hill around.”

Ori is gazing around in wonder, at the books and doilies and little china figurines. No dwarf home would have such breakable items. Dis is admiring the workmanship of her chair, which is sturdy dark wood with damask cushions, comfortable and well-chosen for the room. Thorin is regarding his husband with new eyes.

“You were the Thain of Baggins,” he says softly.

Bilbo grins sheepishly. “I was,” he admits. “I came to the title young – I was only three years out of my majority when my father died – but I was the only son of the Baggins and that was all there was to it.”

“And you gave that up,” Thorin presses. Bilbo looks down at his hands.

At last he replies, “Someone had to, you know. That was part of the treaty the embassy described: we had to make it clear that we would commit ourselves to the alliance. Someone who mattered had to be sent. I was the Baggins, and my mother was one of Gerontius’ daughters, so that’s Took blood too. My grandmother was a Grubb; I’ve got aunts and uncles married to Bolgers and Proudfoots and Chubbs. Drogo’s married to a Brandybuck. I’m about as good a representative as the Shire as you’re going to find, really. And I’m still young, yet – all the other Thains are older, and most of them are married already.”

Thorin considers this. After a while he says, “I am sorry that you gave up your home. You are happy here – that is easy to see. But I am glad you came to Erebor. I hope you will be happy in the Blue Mountains, when we build new homes there.”

Bilbo looks up and smiles at Thorin, that wide marvelous smile that Thorin cherishes so. “I will be,” he says calmly. “I will be happy where you are.”

Dis, who has been discreetly silent, turns a cooing sound into a cough. Ori flushes to the tips of his ears. Thorin beams, wide and irrepressible. It is not proper for a prince to show his emotions so openly, but there is only family and a trusted advisor in the room, and Bilbo will be happy wherever Thorin is.

Dis breaks the silence with a soft clearing of her throat. “We should perhaps return to the caravan before Dwalin sends out search parties,” she points out softly. Ori nods.

Bilbo laughs and stands, offering a hand to Thorin. “Very well,” he says. “But I hope when next we come to Bag End I will have enough time to lay on a proper table for you! Having guests and no food for them is simply shameful.”

Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand and rises, tucking it into the curve of his own elbow. “We just ate at the Thains’ meeting,” he points out mildly.

Bilbo grins. “Well, yes, but there’s always room for a little more!” he insists.

Ori, safely behind them, makes an incredulous face at Dis, who returns it. As Thorin and Bilbo leave the room, she leans over to Ori and murmurs, “But they’re so small! How does it all _fit_?”

There is a female hobbit waiting for them outside Bag End, standing at the gate with an umbrella in her hand and an unpleasant expression. Bilbo stiffens against Thorin and mutters, “I should have guessed she’d show up.” Then, raising his head high as if he is before the court of Erebor again, he says aloud, “Lobelia! How good to see you. May I introduce my husband, Prince Thorin, his sister the Lady Dis, and our chief of scribes, Ori?”

Lobelia sneers. “So _this_ is why you went gallivanting off, cousin? Really now. Hardly a respectable _Baggins_ sort of marriage, is it?”

Thorin is flabbergasted. Ori is dumbstruck. But Dis – Dis is _furious_. She has come to like Bilbo, over the last few fortnights of travel. He is sensible and well-spoken, brave and kind, and very good for her stone-headed oldest brother. And this…this little _hobbit_ dares to speak so to him?

She pushes past Thorin and Bilbo and looms over Lobelia. “I am Dis daughter of Thrain son of Thror, of the line of Durin,” she snaps. “I will not tolerate your disrespect to the Prince Consort.”

Lobelia gapes, but rallies hard. “No respectable Baggins would go off having _adventures_ with dwarves and, and, and women with beards!” The word ‘adventures’ is spat with ultimate disgust.

Dis sneers down at her. “And no small-minded little peasant like you would end up married to a prince, either.”

They glare at her until Bilbo says, behind Dis, “Right, then. Lobelia, you may say what you like about me, but there is no way you are getting Bag End, whether or not I’m married to a dwarf. And now we are leaving. Hamfast will lock up behind us.” He leads the way out of the gate, stepping around Lobelia as if she is a stone in the road. Thorin follows on his heels, with Ori just behind them, looking appalled. Dis follows reluctantly, glaring at Lobelia until the road turns and the hobbit is out of sight.

Once they’re safely out of earshot, Bilbo relaxes and turns to Dis with a laugh. “Thank you,” he says. “I can’t think of the last time someone called Lobelia on her nastiness. She’s been horribly jealous of Bag End since my father built it, practically, and she thinks that if she’s Baggins enough, I’ll turn it over to her, or to her son, since I’ll have no children of my own.” He shakes his head. “Nonsense! Bag End will go to Drogo, or to his children when he has them, not the Sackville-Bagginses!”

Dis finally lets go of her fury, and reaches out to ruffle Bilbo’s hair. “Well,” she says amiably, “you may be a little beardless hobbit, but you’re _our_ little beardless hobbit.” Thorin laughs and gathers Bilbo closer to him as the hobbit tries to smooth his hair down, and they head for the caravan in high spirits.


	14. In Which The Company Reaches The Blue Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last!

Thorin leaves twenty guards behind in the Shire, to begin building a garrison. Dwalin chooses them, picking sturdy, stolid fellows who will not be provoked by strange comments and undwarvish ways. The Thains send a small army of hobbits to help with the building, and to cook for the dwarves and show them around the Shire. Thorin promises the dwarves he leaves behind that they will have fine apartments in the Blue Mountains, and their replacements will arrive within a few months. Dwalin is already drawing up the rotation schedule.

The journey through the Shire is uneventful, as Thorin has hoped. The hobbits turn out in droves to watch two hundred dwarves march through their peaceful land, of course, but that is only to be expected. Thorin makes sure that Bilbo walks with him at the head of the caravan, and the hobbits are visibly reassured by his presence. Murmurs of, “That’s the old Baggins,” and “Oh! Mister Bilbo!” follow them, along with occasional cheers and sometimes laughter at the sight of a hobbit in dwarvish clothing, with a sword at his side. Bilbo waves cheerfully at the crowds and laughs at their jokes. Thorin tries to keep his expression as open and friendly as possible, though he’s not sure he succeeds. Gimli’s obvious enthusiasm and Ori’s frequent questions are probably more responsible for the hobbits’ growing affection for the dwarves.

After four days they reach the foothills of the Blue Mountains. There is a faint road leading up into them, just barely wide enough for the wagons, and Thorin sends scouts ahead to see if there are caves suitable for initial settlements. To everyone’s astonishment, the scouts come back on the second day with the report that the ruins of a dwarvish settlement lie mere miles above them. It is Dis who remembers lost Belegost, home of the Broadbeam dwarves two Ages ago. That night the caravan camps in the great entrance hall of Belegost, and celebrates their marvelous find with songs and dancing. Bilbo dances before the fire, feet flashing, more agile than any dwarf could be, and Thorin watches him with hungry eyes and claps in time to the music.

Finally, when all are weary, Thorin takes his harp from its case and plays the Lament for Belegost. Bilbo sits at his feet and watches wide-eyed, and Thorin realizes he has never played in front of his husband before. The dwarves sing the Lament along with Thorin’s playing, and then retire. It is good to sleep under stone again, and if the ground is cold beneath Thorin, Bilbo is warm in his arms.

For the next several days they explore lost Belegost. It is dank and cold, as unaired caves will be; there are bats in many rooms and stalactites growing from the doorways, and every room is thick with the dust of ages-old wood and cloth. Moss has overgrown the walls, and there is at least one bear lairing in the higher caves. Nevertheless, Thorin is nearly ecstatic: a city already prepared for him, needing merely a little work here and there, is a treasure beyond price. His people are likewise joyful. They spread out through the city, looking for weak spots in the stone and unexpected pools of clear, limestone-laden water, which might indicate problems. They choose their homes – empty rooms for now, but they will soon be filled – near the great palatial set of apartments which Thorin, Bilbo, Dis, and Fili and Kili have claimed. If Thorin’s people had been delving their own chambers, Thorin would never have insisted on such grand apartments, but, well, they are there for the taking.

Thorin makes sure to give Bilbo his own room, to be an office or a separate bedroom or whatever Bilbo chooses. It is one of the few rooms with a window, high in the Blue Mountains, and from the window Bilbo can see the Shire. Thorin and Dis help Bilbo strip the moss from the walls and move in the few possessions he has brought along, and Bilbo really seems quite contented with the arrangement. Thorin hopes that Bilbo will choose to spend most nights in the huge bedroom Thorin has for his own, but if Bilbo wishes his own space, well, that is his prerogative.

To Thorin’s vast relief, once the room has been set up as much as it can be with the lack of furniture, Bilbo looks around in contentment and declares, “Well, this will be a fine little office! I can sit at the window and write. And sooner or later I will need a bookshelf.” Then, turning to gather up one of the packs of his clothes, he adds, “I suppose my clothes should go in your room, though, Thorin, since that’s where I’ll be sleeping.”

Thorin smiles a little behind his beard and picks up the other pack. “Indeed,” he agrees. “There is certainly plenty of room.”

The next day the first shipment of food from the Shire arrives. Thorin goes out to meet it. Five enormous wagons greet him, each piled high with barrels of dried fruits and bags of flour, smoked hams and sides of beef, hogsheads of ale and baskets of fresh produce. Thorin gapes a little when he sees it all.

He gapes more when the hobbit steering the first wagon hops down and grins at him, saying, “Well, this ought to last you a month or so, I’d say!”

As far as Thorin can tell, there is enough food to feed his dwarves for _at least_ four months in those wagons. The dwarves who have come out behind him are muttering in astonishment. “A month?” Thorin says. “You mean four, surely.”

The hobbit cocks his head quizzically. “Well, this is enough food to feed two hundred hobbits for a month and a bit,” he says slowly. “Do dwarves eat less than hobbits?”

Bilbo, who has just arrived, laughs aloud. “They do, Gaffer,” he says merrily. “They only eat thrice a day!”

“You poor creature!” cries the other hobbit. “Are they starving you?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Not at all,” he reassures his countryman. “They’re large meals, to be sure.”

Gloin, behind them, inquires, “How many meals do _hobbits_ eat?”

“Seven, of course!” says the wagon hobbit. Bilbo nods agreement.

There is a long pause. Finally, Gloin exclaims, “But you’re so small! How does it all _fit_?”

Bilbo and the other hobbits dissolve into laughter, and it takes several minutes for them to calm down enough for Thorin to explain that a shipment this size every three or four months will suit his people quite well, really. The chief of the wagon hobbits, a scion of the Proudfoots, promises to so inform the Thains, and the rest of the day is given over to moving the food into the driest and coolest caves in Belegost. The process is made more difficult by the tendency of various dwarves to approach the hobbits, examine them carefully, and exclaim in tones of deepest confusion, “But how does it all _fit_?” The hobbits can only reply that they have always eaten like that. Ori, whose tales of hobbit appetites had been treated as wild exaggerations, receives several apologies from the utterly gobsmacked dwarves. Thorin keeps himself well out of the discussions. It is almost certainly the wisest course.


	15. In Which There Are Braids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin makes beads for his husband's hair.

In one thing Thorin indulges himself: when the forges have been set up, in the great caverns which held Belegost’s forges long ago, he spends a day there, doing nothing but making beads and braiding-trinkets. That night, he offers them to Bilbo, whose hair has grown long on the journey. Bilbo has commented recently that he should cut his hair. Thorin would really rather he didn’t.

Bilbo regards the trinkets curiously, then turns his gaze to Thorin, who takes a deep breath. “It is,” he says, “a custom among my people to make ornaments for loved ones.” He wants to take the words back as soon as he says them – what if Bilbo rejects them, and rejects Thorin with them? – but he soldiers on. “They are for braiding into your hair,” he finishes.

Bilbo smiles, a slow unfolding of pleasure, and moves to sit at Thorin’s feet. “I’ve no skill in braiding,” he says. “Will you braid them in?”

Thorin does, slowly and patiently, dealing with the unruly curls as gently as he can. He places the braids carefully: here the braid of Durin’s line, fastened with beads of gold and mithril. Here the braid of courage, fastened with iron; there loyalty, tipped with bronze. When he is done, the braids pull the hair back from Bilbo’s face, leaving his pointed ears free, and the beads dangle and chime gently as Bilbo turns his head.

“How do I look?”

Thorin cannot find words. Instead, he pulls his hobbit husband to him and kisses him, deep and devouring. Bilbo loops his arms around Thorin’s neck and holds on tightly, kissing back enthusiastically. At length Thorin pulls away just far enough to speak.

“Husband, may I take you to bed?”

Bilbo is flushed and panting already, and he looks up with eyes so dark with arousal that the pupils are bare rings of blue. “Yes,” he says, and “please.”

Thorin picks him up; it’s simpler than letting go. He kisses Bilbo all the way to the pile of rugs which serves him as a bed for now, and only lets go long enough to shuck his own tunic and undershirt, and to divest Bilbo of the same. Bilbo wriggles out of his own trousers, takes a deep breath, and says, “You said we’d…um…try the other way eventually.”

It takes Thorin a moment to remember the night they consummated their marriage, and then his breath comes short and he braces himself on the rugs and stares at Bilbo hungrily. “You are sure?”

“I’m sure,” Bilbo says. “You won’t hurt me.” He grins suddenly. “Come here, husband mine.”

Thorin obeys. What else can he do? He kicks out of his own trousers and pins his hobbit to the bedding and kisses him until Bilbo is near mindless with lust, writhing beneath him and begging in broken phrases to be touched. When Thorin finally sits back on his heels and fumbles for the oil he hid under the pillow in a fit of optimism days ago, Bilbo spreads his legs wide and clutches at the bedding and whines.

Thorin’s hands are large, and for a moment, looking down as he touches one slicked finger to Bilbo’s opening, he’s sure there’s no way this will work. But Bilbo is, as Thorin promised so long ago, no longer nervous: he opens around Thorin’s finger and makes a high, startled noise of pleasure. Thorin watches his face closely, alert for any sign of pain, but there is nothing but lust in Bilbo’s gaze.

“More,” he says hoarsely, and Thorin has a second finger joining the first before he can think to worry. Bilbo winces just a little, but then Thorin has found what he was hoping for, and Bilbo’s head goes back in shock and ecstasy, a thin cry escaping his throat before he can stifle it. Thorin is suddenly glad that Dis’ chambers are on a different level, and Fili and Kili even farther away. He does not want anyone else to hear these noises, to know how Bilbo looks in the throes of pleasure. This is _Thorin’s_ treasure, and he will not share it.

“Again,” says Bilbo, and “more,” and three fingers stretch him wide but Bilbo is not objecting, not objecting at all, and Thorin could almost sit here forever, watching Bilbo writhe on his fingers and whimper broken pleas for more. Almost.

Thorin pulls his fingers away gently – Bilbo whines in protest anyway – and leans over his husband, lining himself up carefully. Bilbo winds his legs around Thorin’s hips and tangles his hands in Thorin’s braids and says, “Please, Thorin,” and it would take a stronger dwarf than Thorin to refuse such a plea.

His first thrust bends Bilbo nearly in half, and Bilbo’s response is to yank on Thorin’s hair to draw him close enough to kiss. Thorin grins into the kiss and thrusts again, swallowing Bilbo’s wail of pleasure. Thorin’s just as glad Bilbo is doing the wailing, because if he wasn’t Thorin would have to be crying out his own triumph and ecstasy. Bilbo is warm and lithe beneath him, and the trinkets in his hair clink together as he tosses his head, and Thorin is filled with the possessiveness which is the curse of the line of Durin.

“Mine,” he growls as he thrusts again into his husband and reaches down between them to wrap his hand around Bilbo. Bilbo shouts his completion and spatters them both with sticky seed. Thorin bends again to kiss him and cannot hold back any longer; he roars his pleasure to the room, somehow gratified at the echo of the stone walls.

Thorin rolls off of Bilbo before he can crush the hobbit, cradling his husband to his chest and running the fingers of his clean hand through Bilbo’s braids. Bilbo wriggles a bit, and says, “Oh, my. I’ll be sore in the morning.” He looks up, grinning into Thorin’s face. “Worth it,” he concludes.

Thorin smiles back. “Did you enjoy yourself, then, husband?”

“I did, indeed.” Bilbo puts his head down again, tucking it under Thorin’s chin so their braids tangle together. Thorin pulls one of the blankets over them and smiles. He would get up to put out the lantern, but that would require letting go of his armful of hobbit, and Thorin rather thinks he never wants to do so again.

They are almost asleep before Thorin says, softly, “Thank you, Bilbo.” Bilbo chuckles a little against Thorin’s throat and cuddles closer.

“You’re welcome,” he says sleepily. “You get to do the laundry, though.” Thorin laughs himself to sleep.


	16. Meanwhile, Back In Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is winter in Erebor.

It is winter, and Thror is dying. He is old, nearly four hundred years now, older than any dwarf has a right to be, and he is dying. He lies on his sickbed and calls for his grandson, his golden grandson, Frerin the Fair, calls for his advisors and his courtiers and his despised son. They come, of course, thronging about his bed and murmuring lies, that he will heal, that he will reign many long years to come.

“I am dying,” he croaks, “and I will not see my kingdom die with me. I will name my heir.” There is a collective intake of breath; every dwarf in the room freezes, keeping themselves from turning to stare at Thrain by sheer force of will.

“Frerin, step forward,” Thror rasps. “Frerin the Golden I name you, heir to my golden kingdom; Frerin the Golden, the king-to-be!”

The gasp comes from every courtier and advisor. As much as Thror hates his son, no one truly expected him to disinherit Thrain. But Thrain’s single eye has no surprise in it; his posture speaks of resignation, not shock.

“I hear and obey, my king,” Frerin says, and bows one last time to Thror, who smiles a sudden, beatific smiles, exhales one last time, and is gone.

Thror is buried in a great marble tomb, inlaid on every side with gold and gems. It has already been prepared for many years: Thror knew he was old, and planned accordingly. After the funeral, while the court and kingdom drink and dance and bellow the ballads of Thror’s fame, Thrain and Frerin draw aside together. The coronation is to be tomorrow.

Thrain regards his son – his last remaining child, now that Thorin is far over the Misty Mountains with Dis beside him. Erebor has heard nothing from Thorin’s folk, but then, it is winter, and no one sane travels over the Misty Mountains in winter. Thrain has not been called sane in many years.

“You are Thror’s son,” Frerin says steadily, meeting his father’s gaze. “By rights, the throne should go to you. Yet there is Thror’s command.”

Thrain nods, slowly. “If I were to claim the throne,” he says, “even if you stepped aside for me, there would be those who called me traitor, and with your word or without it would work to raise you to the throne.”

“Yes,” Frerin agrees. “I do not want to plunge Erebor into war, father.”

Thrain sighs. It is a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, one which seems to come from the very stone beneath him. “I will leave,” he says at last. “I will go to the Blue Mountains, to tell Thorin that his grandfather is dead.”

Frerin nods solemnly. “Carry then this word as well,” he replies. “Tell my brother that he is no vassal prince of Erebor, but King of the Blue Mountains if he will take that name; on the condition that he come never again to Erebor, to set the kingdom asunder with internecine strife.”

Thrain bows. “That word I will bear,” he promises. “I will bring with me, also, those I think most likely to contest your reign. Better to have fewer subjects, and loyal, than to have those among them who whisper treason.”

“Done,” agrees Frerin. “Stay past the coronation – let there be no word that I have driven you out – and I will send you with all necessary provisions to the elves of the Greenwood, and thence I suppose over the Misty Mountains.” He pauses. “If you will,” he says at last, “bear this word too to Thorin: tell him I love my brother, and my sister too, and wish them long life and all prosperity.”

“All this I will bear to Thorin, and to Dis,” Thrain promises.

The coronation the next morning is solemn and majestic. Frerin takes the throne, golden hair shining in the light of the Arkenstone, and his father places Thror’s crown upon Frerin’s brow. The assembled dwarves cheer, and cheer again; and Thrain, stepping behind the throne and away, is forgotten in the tumult. “Frerin!” cry the dwarves of Erebor. “Frerin the Golden!”

Ten days later, Thrain and his followers, some forty dwarves in all, march out into the snow and ice of winter. They are provisioned and beweaponed, and Frerin has given them his formal blessing. The Prince of the elves awaits them at the Greenwood, to steer them on the first leg of their journey.

Thrain, like his eldest son nine months earlier, does not look back at Erebor as he leaves. He does not want to create a succession crisis; he does not want to fight his son for the throne of Erebor. He would not have allowed Thror to banish him from the mountain – that would have been one step too far, one disgrace too deep – but this is different. This is his son, the only son left in Erebor. Thrain will not disinherit his son, not even for gold and gems and power.

Perhaps, he thinks, once he has delivered his message to Thorin, he will go once more to Moria and finish what was begun so many years ago.


	17. In Which Belegost Is Restored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves of Belegost do not waste their winter. Warning: angst.

As summer turns to fall, Thorin’s people rebuild Belegost. They hire hobbit wood-workers to make doors and tables, beds and chairs; they buy hobbit-made cloth to hang curtains, and set up hobbit-made looms to create the grand tapestries which ought to adorn the walls. They clean the halls and chambers of Belegost of dust and moss and spiders, close off the rooms where bats have made their home (even dwarves do not relish cleaning millennia of bat guano) and drive out the bears who have denned in the upper chambers. Dwalin brings home a great brown bear pelt, triumphant from single combat.

The hobbits begin to grow used to their new neighbors. Dwalin makes sure that the dwarves who rotate through the garrison, twenty at a time, are courteous to their hosts; and indeed, the quantity and quality of the food the hobbit cooks provide makes garrison duty something of a coveted position. As the Thains predicted, many young hobbits, too enthusiastic yet to settle down, are eager to learn from the dwarven guards. Bilbo notwithstanding, the dwarves quickly ascertain that hobbits are not meant to wield swords and axes. But bows and slings…well.

All hobbits are fond of games of skill – darts, quoits, horseshoes, and so on. Bilbo himself is known in the Shire as an expert marksman, but he is by no means the only one. When the dwarves begin to test their eager companions with distance weapons, the hobbits take to them like ducks to water. Dwarves are skilled enough with throwing axes, but a trained and motivated hobbit, they learn quickly, can hit a sparrow on the wing or put a stone through the eye of the training dummy at a hundred yards.

(When this is reported to Bilbo in Belegost, Bilbo shrugs. “Of course they can,” he says easily. “Can’t you?” Thorin has to explain to him that dwarves are not expert marksmen by nature, and also that dwarves cannot walk utterly silently through forests. Bilbo is mildly flabbergasted. Thorin sends word to the garrison to recruit more hobbit scouts.)

The Thains, delighted by the news that dwarves eat less than hobbits do, cut the number of wagon-loads of food by about a third, which still provides every dwarf in Belegost with enough food to lay on feasts regularly. The Thains also take to including special packages in the wagons for Bilbo, whom they are all convinced is being starved by the dwarves. Three meals a day? Calamity! Bilbo shares his packages with Thorin and Dis and Ori, and sometimes Fili and Kili if they behave. Thorin is only a little offended at the accusation that he would let his husband starve.

The miners among the dwarves are delighted to find that Belegost’s mines are by no means played out. Whatever drove the first inhabitants of Belegost to leave their mountains, it was not a lack of gold or gems. Bilbo is more than a little baffled the first time a group of miners lays a tenth of their week’s discoveries at his feet, but he manages a credible thank-you and asks Thorin about it that night. Thorin laughs.

“They are tithing,” he explains. “And they brought their tithe to the Prince Consort, I assume, because without you we would not be in Belegost. It is a sign of loyalty and fealty.”

Bilbo blushes. “I don’t particularly want anyone’s fealty,” he protests. Thorin pats him on the back and smiles.

“You are Prince Consort,” he says. “You _need_ their fealty. If I must go to war, or on a journey, you will be the ruler of Belegost. Dis will help you, yes, and you will have other advisors as well, but it will be your word which is law.”

Bilbo gulps. “I’m not sure I know _how_ to rule a kingdom of dwarves, Thorin. I mean, I know how to be a Thain, but hobbits aren’t exactly fractious.”

Thorin just smiles. “I have every confidence that you will figure it out,” he tells his husband. “You’ve been doing well so far.”

Bilbo sighs and drops the subject, but Thorin notices that he begins to spend more time with Ori, studying the laws and customs of the dwarves and perfecting his Khuzdul. Thorin begins to ask Bilbo to join him on days of open court, sitting in the little throne beside Thorin’s large one and listening to the small quarrels and questions of the dwarves. There are not so many dwarves in Belegost yet that open court is truly a necessity, but it is a good habit to acquire. Someday there may be many more dwarves in the city, and then it will not be possible for the king to know every face and name. When that day comes, the dwarves of Belegost must know there is a way for them to speak to their king.

The Thains arrange for the pony-relay system to be set up between the garrison and Belegost, and the dwarves begin construction of the signal towers which will someday replace the ponies. There are only a few of the dwarves who have the skill to make the necessary mirrors, however, and so the towers rise but slowly, and construction stops altogether with the first light snow of winter.

Most surprising – and amusing – to Bilbo is the number of hobbit lasses who appear to think that dwarven soldiers and miners are remarkably attractive. The wagon-drivers who bring the shipments of food are replaced after the first month with young hobbit women; perfectly competent, of course, but distinctly more interested in dwarven men than in delivering their shipments quickly and leaving. Bilbo catches glimpses of Bofur, with his remarkable hat, sharing confidences with a cheerful young lady; of Oin and an older hobbitess, a well-known herbwife, consulting over dinner; of Dori (to Bilbo’s vast amusement) showing off by lifting entire barrels of ale over his head, sometimes with hobbits sitting on them; of Nori pickpocketing a laughing hobbitess and presenting her with the spoils on a silver platter.

He mentions this to Thorin, who considers the matter carefully and decides that, since dwarven women are so rare, and hobbit lasses so plentiful, it will hardly be a problem if dwarven men take up with hobbitesses. Indeed, if hobbit fertility carries over, the lucky dwarves might be able to have many children! That would be a fine thing indeed. Bilbo agrees – except for one thing.

“How long do dwarves live?” Bilbo asks.

“Oh, three to four hundred years, if we are not slain in battle. My grandfather is nearly four hundred, and that is old indeed. I have nearly two hundred years myself.”

Bilbo nods sadly. “I thought that that might be the case. Thorin, hobbits live a hundred years, maybe a hundred and twenty – I am only forty-eight, you know.”

Thorin’s jaw drops. He had not even thought to ask how old his husband is: Bilbo is clearly an adult by the standards of his people, and that sufficed. But a lifespan less than half that of a dwarf’s?

“I will have to tell my people,” he says at last. “Some will still wed hobbits, I am sure. But dwarves do not re-marry, you know; we wed once and that is all. To lose a spouse so quickly…to wed _knowing_ your wife will die of old age so soon…I do not know if I could bear it.” He pulls Bilbo to him, burying his face in Bilbo’s hair. “I did not know your life would be so short, husband.”

Bilbo shrugs and wraps his arms as far as they will go around the dwarf. “If we have only fifty years, still that is fifty years,” he says sensibly. “We will make the best of it.”

“Yes,” Thorin agrees, and holds Bilbo tightly for a long time.


	18. In Which Thrain Crosses The Misty Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one sane crosses the Misty Mountains in winter.

Crossing the Misty Mountains in the winter, as the prince of the elves takes pains to point out to Thrain, is not something done lightly – indeed, most sane creatures do not attempt it at all. Thrain knows this well, but he knows, too, that if he had stayed in Erebor, there would have been civil war, and he will not stand against his son. He will not be his father.

Nevertheless, Thrain must admit, if only to himself, that climbing a mountain through several feet of snow is not the most pleasant of pastimes, and that given a better option he would perhaps have preferred to take it. He retains this opinion until his party is almost over the pass.

Then there is the day of the whiteout. The snowstorm is so sudden, and so violent, that if they dwarves were not already roped together for safety they would all have lost each other instantly. Thrain knows that they must find shelter, else they will die. For just a moment, Thrain despairs; but he is a prince of Erebor, a dwarf of Durin’s line, and he forges forward, one hand on the wall beside him, until suddenly the wall turns and he steps into a cave.

It is a large cave, he sees, as his eyesight clears, and he tugs vigorously on the rope in the pattern that encourages the other dwarves to hurry. Soon forty dwarves are clustered in the cave, shivering and unhappy. In a moment they will begin to mutter and grumble. Thrain thanks every god there is that they pause that moment, because that is just enough time for him to reach the back of the cavern and see, through a wide crack in the wall, the vast gathering of orcs and goblins on the other side.

He signs silence and danger to his followers in frantic movements, and they huddle together near the cave entrance and nearly hold their breath. None of them is in any shape to fight. Thrain plasters himself to the wall beside the crack and watches the orcs. They are all facing away from him, towards a great throne at the end of the vast cavern. The orc upon the throne, an enormous creature with a mace larger than Thrain in its hand, is speaking.

“…will sweep the dwarvish scum and the pitiful hobbits from their lairs,” Thrain hears, and sucks in a quick breath. There are dwarves in many places, but there are only hobbits in the Shire. The orcish chieftain must be speaking of Thorin’s people. “We march in ten days!” the orc continues. “Gather your fellows; strip the mines of Khazad-dum of their hordes. Let none remain behind!” The orcs and goblins cheer and dance, waving their weapons and chanting in their own black tongues. Thrain pulls away from the crack in the wall. He has seen enough.

He signs to his people, glad suddenly of Iglishmek. _Danger_ , he signs, and _silence_. _Move swiftly_ , he tells them, and then, carefully, _warn son danger_. His people nod, glancing at the crack in the wall. They have heard enough, Thrain knows, to put the pieces together. Thorin is in danger. Thrain and his people must reach the Shire before the orcs do.

They stand in silence until the snowstorm passes. This is the most dangerous moment, Thrain knows: the sound of the snowstorm covered their stumbling entrance into the cave, but without the howl of the wind, they must be as quiet as possible when they leave, lest the orcs hear. To Thrain’s immense relief, no one trips, no one swears. They are as silent as dwarves can be as they file out of the cave and move, as fast as they can, towards the peaceful lands below. In ten days, the orcish horde will boil from the mountains behind them.

It takes Thrain’s people fourteen days to reach the garrison at the edge of the Shire. They are spotted by keen-eyed hobbit scouts; the leader of the garrison, Nain son of Loni, comes out to meet them.

“Hail, Thrain son of Thror! What brings you over the Misty Mountains at this inhospitable time of year?”

Thrain shakes his head. “No time for pleasantries. Send word to my son. There are orcs behind us – they will have left the mountains four days hence. They come to sweep the Shire clean and destroy you all. Send word!”

Nain turns and bellows orders. Swiftly, Thrain and his people are brought within the garrison hall. A letter to Thorin is written and handed to the hobbit who rides the first leg of the pony relay; moments later, the galloping of the pony’s hooves fades into the distance. More letters are written and sent out with the hobbit auxiliaries, alerting the Thains and urging them to begin evacuating their people towards Belegost.

Nain leads Thrain to a large map pinned to the wall of the garrison. “Here we are,” he says, pointing to the red star. “Here is Belegost. It will take the ponies two days to reach the mountains – less if they run the ponies to death, but I do not know that they will. It will take Thorin at least three or four days to reach us. Have we that long?”

Thrain considers the map. “They left the mountains four days ago,” he says, “and I heard their master giving orders to strip the hordes from the mines of Moria and from all the Misty Mountains. It will be a great horde, but great hordes travel slowly. It will take them at _least_ another ten days to reach us. Thorin, you say, can be here in six. I think we have a chance. My people will of course fight beside yours – I have forty dwarves, all proven warriors.”

Nain nods. “And we have twenty here, and the hobbit auxiliaries. I have sent out scouts.”

“What can the hobbits do?” asks Thrain condescendingly.

“They are the best archers and slingers I have ever seen or heard tell of,” Nain replies, “and they are quieter than hunting mountain cats in the woods. We will know when the orcs are coming, and from what direction; and the covering fire from the archers will be better than you can imagine.”

Thrain bows a little. “I stand corrected,” he says solemnly. “I am glad to hear of their skills.”

Nain nods. “We were also surprised,” he offers. “They have one other great talent also. Come; the cooks will have just finished making tea. I am sure your people are hungry.”

Thrain is forced to admit, some forty minutes later as he pushes back from the table, that hobbits make a very good meal – and a very _large_ meal, too. “This was tea?” he asks Nain. “I should have thought it supper.”

Nain laughs. “No, no, we have yet to reach supper,” he teases. “There is dinner yet to come first.” Thrain gapes, and then joins in the laughter.


	19. In Which Thorin Marches To War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis has a cluebat, and has just run out of patience.

The hobbit stumbles into the great hall of Belegost, panting with the run from the entrance, and falls to his knees before Thorin’s throne. Thorin is down the steps of the dais instantly, arms around the hobbit before he can collapse. The messenger digs the rolled parchment out of his belt pouch and presses it into Thorin’s hands, then plants both hand on the floor and concentrates on breathing deeply.

Thorin tears the parchment open and scans the runes. Then he raises his head and bellows orders: “Dwalin! Assemble every dwarf who can fight. Balin, my armor. Dori, see to provisions. We march in three hours! The orcs approach the Shire!” The dwarves scatter to gather armor and weapons; Gloin kisses his wife and son and sprints for his quarters. Thorin turns to Bilbo, sitting transfixed with horror on his small throne.

“Bilbo, you are ruler while I am gone. Dis will stand with you. There will be refugees from the Shire.”

Bilbo shakes himself and stands. “Yes. We will need to arrange somewhere to put them. This hall will do, and the great dining hall. Dis, Niri! Gimli, go and find all the dwarves who will not be going with the army. We may need to bar the entrance; make sure the doors are in good repair, and help Dis and Niri set up the halls for refugees.” Dis and Niri and Gimli leave the hall with swift strides.

Thorin embraces his husband briefly. “I will destroy them,” Thorin promises softly. “My oath upon it. The Shire will be safe.”

Bilbo nods, and Thorin sees again the same fierce expression which Bilbo wore when he killed giant spiders and a white warg. “Your kingdom will await you when you return, husband,” he promises in turn. “My oath upon that.”

Thorin kisses him fiercely, turns, and is gone.

Three hours later, Bilbo stands at the entrance to Belegost, watching Thorin and a hundred and sixty dwarves march away to war. Dis stands beside him with her hand heavy on his shoulder. There are thirty dwarves left in Belegost, those too young or too old to fight, the women and their babies. And there is one hobbit. Bilbo stands straight and tall, and does not look away from the army until they are lost to sight behind the hills. Then he turns to his people.

“The great hall and the dining hall will be given over to the refugees,” he says. “They should start arriving in the next few days. We have provisions for at least a month, but we should be careful with them nonetheless. Niri, please make sure the water barrels are full and not fouled.” Niri bows. “I want three dwarves in this entrance hall at all hours, ready to sound the alarm or aid refugees. Keep the doors open for now, but we must be ready to close them at a moment’s notice.” He takes a deep breath. “I will be in the great hall if anyone needs to speak with me about anything. Go; prepare.” The assembled dwarves bow and scatter to their duties. Gimli and two other dwarves, greybeards with the scars of old battles, station themselves beside the doors. Bilbo and Dis head for the great hall side by side.

And Bilbo learns the great lesson of all who stay behind while others go to war: the worst bit is the waiting.

That first day they get the halls set up for refugees. Ori, whose brothers insisted he stay behind, brings Bilbo Niri’s assessment of the provisions they have on hand. Rotations for the door-watchers are set up, and an old, old miner brings Bilbo news of a long, dark, winding tunnel which leads out the other side of the mountain, in case of utter disaster. Bilbo thanks him profusely.

And then Bilbo and Dis are left alone in the great hall, their people bustling about at makework. Bilbo drops his head into his hands as he sits on his little throne.

“I’m not cut out to be a ruler,” he says softly and plaintively into the empty silence. Dis puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re doing well enough, brother-in-law,” she consoles him. “The waiting is always hard. So did I wait for my father, many years ago. So do I wait now for my sons.”

Bilbo raises his head to look at her. “Thrain did come back,” he says hopefully.

“Thrain failed,” Dis says harshly. “Thorin will not fail. But I cannot say that they will live. I do not know. If the price of victory is his death, Thorin will go to the halls of our ancestors gladly.” Bilbo winces.

The next day seems to drag on forever. Dis and Bilbo and Ori retreat to the practice rooms and wear themselves out with sword and axe practice. Bilbo collects a pouch of small smooth stones and keeps it with him in case he needs to throw them at something. The three of them sleep in Dis’ rooms; Bilbo cannot bear to go back to the empty bed which ought to have Thorin in it, and Ori’s chambers are cold without his brothers.

The next day the first refugees arrive, carrying bundles of food and small valuable. Bilbo assigns Ori to record their names, just in case, and goes himself to help them settle in. Many of them know him, at least a little, and Hamfast’s wife Bell hugs him hard and does not let him go for long minutes. Hamfast insisted that she come, she tells him, but would not come himself; instead he went to join the slingers. It would not do to leave Bag End unattended, after all. Bilbo nods and does not weep.

That night Ori brings a hogshead of ale and Dwalin’s warhammer to Dis’ rooms. The three of them drink too much and lean against each other in front of the fire. Late in the night, Bilbo says quietly, “I do not know what I will do if Thorin dies. I was so scared when I came to Erebor, you know? A hobbit alone among dwarves, already married and the marriage soon to be consummated. I was terrified.”

Dis drapes an arm around his shoulders and hugs him close. Ori curls his knees to his chest and stares into the fire.

“I thought it’d just be a political marriage, you know? We can’t have children, of course, so I figured we’d consummate it and then he’d leave me alone and I’d be…I’d have no one at all. But he didn’t. He’s good to me.”

Dis says mildly, “Dwarves marry for life. Even a political marriage is important. And my brother has come to care for you deeply, you know.” She ruffles Bilbo’s hair, making the beads and trinkets Thorin braided into it clink and jangle against each other. “Dwarves do not make beads for any casual acquaintance, Bilbo.”

Bilbo buries his face in his hands. “I did not expect to fall in love with him,” he tells the floor.

“Oh, Bilbo,” is all Dis says, but she wraps him up in her arms and holds him until he falls asleep. Ori is still staring into the fire, but Dis notices that Dwalin’s warhammer is propped against the wall beside the fireplace. She sighs.

“You, too, Ori?”

“What would he want with a scribe?” says Ori contemptuously. “He’s the prince’s bodyguard.”

Dis rolls her eyes. “He gave you his _warhammer_ , Ori. Dwalin is nearly obsessive about his weapons. He doesn’t even let Thorin hold them.”

Ori turns to gape at her. “I…really?”

Dis shakes her head. “How did I get chosen to be matchmaker?” she asks the ceiling. Then, to Ori. “Yes, really. When this is over, if we all survive, I expect you to stop dithering and say something to him. Dwalin’s not going to make the first move, not with Dori looming over your shoulder.”

“Yes, Lady Dis,” Ori says meekly, and curls up on the rug before the fire with his head in her lap. She pets his braids until he’s also asleep, and sits awake through the night watching the fire and praying to Mahal that her friends will find their beloveds alive and well when the battle’s done, and that her sons will come marching home.


	20. The Battle Of The Shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a great battle.

Thorin presses his people hard. The more time they have to set up before the orcs arrive, the more likely they are to survive the coming battle, and – more to the point – to win it. The first time the dwarves crossed the Shire to Belegost, it took them the better part of a week. Thorin’s army makes the return journey in three exhausting days.

Thrain and Nain meet them at the garrison. “The scouts have spotted the orcs,” Nain begins without preamble. “They’re about four days out. Several thousand of them at a bare minimum – the hobbits don’t dare get close enough to do a full count. Can’t blame them.”

Thorin nods and gestures to Dwalin to find the army hot food and beds. They are all weary. “I have a hundred and sixty dwarves,” he tells Nain, “to add to your twenty.”

“There are the forty who came over the mountains with me,” Thrain adds. “We will fight beside you, of course.”

Thorin nods. “Nain, how do the auxiliaries look?”

“We have perhaps five hundred slingers and archers,” Nain says, grinning for the first time in days. “As soon as the word began to spread, hobbits started coming to volunteer. The children and the mothers have gone to Belegost – and those who cannot fight – but we’ve a strong little army of hobbit marksmen, and all of them expert at it, too.”

“Four days,” Thorin muses. “Enough time for some good fortifications.”

Nain nods. “We have already begun,” he replies. “There is a field over the hill which is practically perfect for our needs. The shielding for the archers is complete, though we’ve had to expand it twice – more kept coming in!”

Thorin nods, then sighs. “I must sleep,” he says wearily. “In the morning we can begin the battle plans.”

“When you wake,” Thrain says softly as Nain takes his leave, “I bring news from Erebor.”

“I will hear it willingly, father, in the morning.” Thorin bows to Thrain and goes to find a bed.

In the morning, he meets briefly with Thrain. For all its import, Thrain’s original message is short and to the point: “Thror is dead,” he tells Thorin bluntly. “He named Frerin his heir on his deathbed. I did not wish to cause civil war, and so I volunteered to come to you. Frerin sends word that he holds no claim over your people; names you King in the Blue Mountains, beholden to no one, provided you never return to Erebor.”

Thorin nods. “Thror’s death I had anticipated; nothing else could bring you over the mountains in this season.” He looks out over the Shire from the top of the hill. “Even a year ago – six months ago – Frerin’s words would have enraged me,” he says quietly. “But I will be King in Belegost, and ally to the Shire, and that contents me well.” He turns back to his father. “Let us go and plan the battle, or I shall be king of nothing at all.”

Four days later, the orcs arrive. Hobbit scouts have brought back numbers: close to three thousand orcs, and at their head the giant chieftain Thrain spied upon in the mountains. Thorin is unutterably grateful for silent-footed hobbit scouts, and for keen-eyed hobbit archers standing on the hill above his people. The dwarves are ready. Their axes are keen, their arms are strong. They are well-fed and well-rested and the low wall before them will give them just enough of an edge. One dwarf warrior, Thrain has always said, is worth ten orcs. Thorin hopes Thrain is at least halfway right.

The orc chieftain sees the small army of dwarves when he reaches the edge of the woods, across the broad clearing from the long hill the dwarves have built their fortifications on. The dwarves are halfway up the hill, with their wall in front of them. The hobbits are at the top, behind their wooden shelters, arrows and slings at the ready. They have promised to wait for Thorin’s word. Thorin takes a deep breath when he sees the orcs, and raises his axe.

“Dwarves of Belegost!” he cries, and the dwarves send up a cheer. “For the Shire!”

“For the Shire!” bellow the dwarves. “Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-Menu!”

Then the orcs charge. There are so many of them, like a black tide across the clearing, trampling the winter-brittle grass into icy mud. Thorin braces himself, seeing his father’s eye go blank with the berserker fury, hearing Bifur’s furious shriek of Khuzdul and Dwalin’s bellow of fury and Gloin’s cry of “For Niri and Gimli!” and then the orcs are within arrow range. Thorin bellows, “FIRE!”

Above the dwarves, five hundred hobbits let fly arrows and stones. Thorin follows one arrow with his eyes, sees it bury itself deep in an orcish throat. Not all the arrows do so well – some merely wound, some bury themselves in the dirt. But the orcish charge falters at the sudden rain of death, and Thorin grins without any mirth at all. Then the orcs are upon them.

Orcs are not master tacticians. Every one of them wants the head of a dwarf to hang upon its wall. This is why Thorin set up the battlefield so: although the orcs _could_ swing around the hill and go on to ravage the Shire, leaving the dwarves trapped by their own fortifications, they will not. They will fling themselves at the hill and the wall until all the dwarves are dead, or all the orcs are. So Thorin flings himself into the fray, with hobbit arrows whipping by his head and orcish swords and axes on every hand, and knows that even if he dies here, his dwarves _will_ stop the orcs.

Thorin does not see much of the battle. He sees only the next orc to slay, the next sword to block, the next shield to shatter. He hears his father’s hoarse cries beside him, Dwalin’s bull-throated “Baruk Khazad!” on his other side, hears the screams of pain from orc and dwarf alike and the hiss of arrows and stones and the dull sound of metal meeting meat.

The fourth orc he kills manages to nick his arm; the seventh puts a gash in his leg. The ninth lays open Thorin’s scalp, and he fights on with blood pouring into his eyes and pain like hot pokers clamoring to distract him. The eleventh orc knocks him off his feet and raises its axe for the killing blow, and Dwalin is standing over him, taking the sword on his gauntlet and killing the orc with a wild blow. There is no next orc. Dwalin sags to his knees beside Thorin, bleeding in a dozen places, and croaks out, “My prince, we won.” Thorin raises his head just enough to see the battered remnant of the orcish army – a few hundred orcs all told, none without wounds – running frantically for the treeline, with hobbit arrows hissing after them.

The battle is over; the Shire is safe. Thorin closes his eyes.


	21. In Which Thorin Visits Bag End Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mister Bilbo's husband should be in Mister Bilbo's house.

The messenger arrives ten days after Thorin marched away. He is bedraggled and exhausted, but he is also grinning widely. Bilbo ushers him into the great hall where the refugees are waiting, and the messenger flings his arms out wide and cries, “We won! The orcs are defeated!”

The dwarves and hobbits break into loud cheers, embracing each other and doing little dances of joy, but Bilbo pulls the messenger to one side and demands, “What of Thorin?”

The messenger’s face falls. “He lives,” he says, “but he is gravely wounded.”

Bilbo nods, and thanks the messenger, and sends him into the press of happy hobbits to celebrate with them. Bilbo pulls Dis and Ori and Niri aside.

“I am going to the Shire,” he tells them. “Thorin is hurt. I will see him again. Dis, you are regent while I am gone. Niri, I know Dis can rely on you.”

“And me?” Ori asks.

“You’ll come with me. There’s no way Thorin’s badly hurt and Dwalin’s not. Pack: we leave within the hour.”

Dis does not even bother to argue. Bilbo and Ori race from the room, heading for their quarters. Dis grabs a young hobbit and sends him out to saddle a pair of ponies. If the Prince Consort insists on going to his husband’s side, she will not stand in his way.

Bilbo grabs only a few things from his rooms: a change of clothes, and a small pouch. He has been whittling, these last ten days, to keep himself from going mad with the waiting, and the product of his whittling is, of course, for Thorin. He meets Ori on the way to the stables, and they find the horses waiting. Ori laughs a little. “Trust Dis to be on top of things!”

They strap their packs – and the warhammer – to the backs of the saddles and are off before anyone but Dis and Niri knows they’ve gone.

The ride to the edge of the Shire is long and unpleasant. Bilbo is not accustomed to riding; nor is Ori. They stop at the pony relay stations and change mounts, and eat, and sometimes sleep; but later Bilbo’s only memory of the three-day journey will be of mud and saddle-sores and misery.

They reach the garrison hall on the third day, riding tired ponies and exhausted themselves. Bofur is standing near the door – or rather, leaning against the doorframe. His arm is in a sling, but his ridiculous hat is firmly on his head, and he smiles when he sees them. “My prince!” he cries, bowing. “You’ve come to see King Thorin, then.”

“King?” says Bilbo in some confusion.

“King of Belegost! King Frerin of Erebor sent word by Thrain that we’re our own kingdom now!”

Bilbo gapes, then grins. “That’ll please my husband well, I think. Where is he?”

Bofur points behind them. “A hobbit, called himself Hamfast, insisted that ‘Mister Bilbo’s husband should be in Mister Bilbo’s house,’ so off to Bag End they carted him and Dwalin, and Thrain and Fili and Kili, too.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo says sincerely. “Tell me, who else is injured?”

Bofur chuckles ruefully. “Oh, every dwarf among us is injured one way or another. Master Ori, your brothers are alive; Dori has a knot on his head and Nori a broken leg, but they got off easy compared to some of us.” Ori relaxes noticeably. “We lost about thirty dwarves, and two supremely unlucky hobbits,” Bofur continues. “I don’t know that you’d know any of the names, and I’m not sure I can recall them all at the moment. The Thains say they’ll put up a monument as soon as possible.”

Bilbo bows from the saddle. “Thank you, Bofur,” he says again. “I am off to Bag End, then. I wish you a speedy recovery.” Bofur beams, and Bilbo and Ori turn their ponies towards Bag End. Bilbo chuckles. “Trust Hamfast to think of something like that!”

When Bilbo reaches Bag End, Hamfast greets him at the door. Bilbo embraces his old friend. “Thank you,” he says softly, “for bringing him here.”

“’Tis only proper,” Hamfast says stoutly. “I’ll go put the kettle on. King Thorin’s in your room, Mister Bilbo; his guard is in the one next door, and Prince Thrain in the one across the hall, with the lads in the room beside. Call if you need me.”

Bilbo smiles as Hamfast walks away, and turns to Ori. “Go on then,” he says gently. “Dwalin’s in the fifth room on the left.” Ori hurries down the hall. Bilbo takes a deep breath, puts a hand on the little pouch tucked into his tunic, and follows.

Thorin is pale as bone, and there are bandages on his head and his arm and his leg. He is covered with one of the quilts Belladonna used to make for Bilbo, and he is quite asleep. Bilbo slumps down in the chair next to him and stares at his husband for long minutes. Finally, he reaches into his tunic and pulls out the pouch, opening it to produce a handful of wooden beads carved with inlaid flowers. Aster and balsam, rose and primrose, clove and daffodil and gorse, every flower Bilbo could think of which means love. Carefully, he leans over the bed and begins to braid Thorin’s hair.

*

Ori takes the warhammer into Dwalin’s room with him. He’s not sure quite why. Dwalin is awake and sitting up, propped up on pillows, though his placid expression, in light of his many injuries, suggests he may also be quite drugged. He smiles when he sees Ori.

Ori comes to a stop beside the bed and stands there fidgeting nervously for a moment. Finally he bursts out, “The Lady Dis said you might be interested…I mean, you…um.” He trails off miserably. Dwalin blinks in confusion. Ori takes a deep breath and tries again.

“I love you,” he says clearly, amazed when he gets it out without stammering.

Dwalin beams, and reaches out to tangle a hand in Ori’s baggy sweater and pull him onto the bed and into a loose embrace. Ori flails for a moment and then curls into the hug with a huge sigh of relief. Dwalin chuckles and puts one finger under Ori’s chin to turn his face up.

“I love you, too, my lad,” he says softly. “Do you think I give my weapons to just anyone?” And then, before Ori can come up with any sort of retort at all, Dwalin kisses him.

*

Thorin wakes up just as Bilbo is finishing the last braid with a honeysuckle-carved bead. He blinks up at Bilbo, whose face is very close to his, and says faintly, “Good day, husband.”

“Good day,” Bilbo says quietly, not flinching away. Thorin lifts his uninjured hand to feel his hair and starts to smile.

“Did you braid my hair, Bilbo?”

“Yes. I hope I did it right.”

Thorin pulls one of the braids in front of his face so he can see the bead. “It’s a flower,” he says, bewildered.

Bilbo takes a deep breath. “It’s a gardenia,” he says. “It means love.”

Thorin drops the braid and stares up at his husband. “Love?” he says in awed tones. “You love me?”

Bilbo nods. “Yes. I love you. Do you…could you…”

Thorin pulls his hobbit down for a kiss. “I love you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”


	22. In Which Thrain Leaves Belegost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And also Bilbo gets an invitation he cannot refuse.

Within a month, nearly all of the dwarves have recovered from their injuries. Thorin is walking within three weeks, never more than an arm’s length from his husband. Many of the hobbits can be heard to make soft cooing sounds at the obvious affection between them, and Thorin overhears more than one hobbit matron opining that Mister Bilbo is a lucky hobbit indeed. Thorin is rather more of the opinion that he himself is a lucky dwarf, but that is a different problem.

By the time the dwarves are back on their feet, the hobbits have completed the building of a monument on the top of the hill where they made their stand. It is quite impressive, really: polished stone from Belegost (Dis sent it as soon as the request was made), carved with the name of every dwarf and hobbit who fell in the battle. Thorin visits it as soon as he can, and Nain, who is now the permanent garrison commander despite the limp he will never lose, promises that the garrison will keep the monument clean and well cared for. The dwarves and hobbits who perished in the battle are buried along the side of the hill beside the monument, and the hobbits plant flowers over their graves. Thorin makes a mental note to ask Bilbo what the flowers mean, one of these days. He wears every one of Bilbo’s wooden beads proudly, relishing the soft clatter of wood on wood when he moves his head, constant proof of his husband’s love.

Once almost all the dwarves are recovered, Thorin leaves a garrison behind and brings the rest of the dwarves to Belegost. Dis receives them with great rejoicing, and the dwarves who stayed behind rush into the arms of parents and husbands with tears of relief. Thorin shares with Dis the news of their separation from Erebor, and she laughs and laughs until she cries – though that may also be from the fact that she is holding her sons in her arms, bruised and battered but ultimately unharmed. Fili and Kili cling to their mother. They fought side-by-side at the battle, and though both survived, the sheer brutality of their first experience with war shocked them badly.

When the greetings and the weeping are done, Thorin shows Thrain Belegost. Dis and her small court have worked hard to ensure that the returning army will be comfortable: there are rooms set aside for the dwarves who came with Thrain from Erebor, and a great feast ready to be laid on that night. Thrain is properly admiring, but Thorin can tell that his father is thinking of other halls.

At dinner that night, Thorin is hailed as King of Belegost, Bilbo as Prince Consort. The dwarves eat and drink and sing, old songs and new ones of the courage of Durin’s line and the triumph of the dwarves. Bilbo matches them drink for drink, and when Thorin takes up his harp, Bilbo sings an old, old hobbit song: the Lament of the Lost, the song of the hobbits without a home. The dwarves cheer him, and Thorin, and their noble dead.

Several days later, Thrain meets with Thorin privately. “I cannot stay here,” he tells Thorin. “I could not stay in Erebor, either. Give me leave to take those dwarves who wish to come, and I will go to Moria. There cannot be more than a few hundred orcs left in the mines, a leaderless rabble, still shaking from their defeat.” Thrain it was, berserk with blood-rage, who struck down the great orc chieftain.

Thorin sighs. “I could wish you would remain,” he tells his father, “but if you cannot, you cannot. Take whom you will who wishes to go, and I will give you blessings and provisions. Send word from Moria when you have taken it. Let there be a dwarf Lord in Moria again.”

Thrain nods. “I will do so. I cannot leave for a little while yet – some of those who will come with me are healing still, and there is time before autumn. But I wished to let you know of my plans.”

A few days later, to the utter bafflement of all the dwarves in Belegost – not to mention the hobbits assigned as her escort – a human woman dressed in the greens and browns of the Rangers arrives at the entrance to Belegost and requests, quite politely, an audience with Prince Consort Bilbo Baggins. After a swift consultation, the dwarves on door duty lead her through the tunnels to the great hall, where Bilbo and Thorin are holding open court. The woman bows to both of them.

“Hail, Thorin son of Thrain, King of Belegost! Hail, Prince Consort Bilbo Baggins! My name is Gilraen daughter of Ivorwen of the Dunedain. I come bearing a message from Gandalf the Grey, who rests now in Rivendell.”

“Gandalf!” cries Bilbo. “Is he well? I had worried, for he said he would meet me in the Shire, and I have not seen him.”

Gilraen smiles. “He is, like the dwarves of Belegost, recovering from a great battle. He sends word that it would please him immensely if his old friend Bilbo would come to visit him, and tell him of the Shire and of the dwarves, and how they fare.”

“Of course I will go,” says Bilbo instantly. Thorin stiffens beside him. Bilbo lays a soothing hand on Thorin’s arm. “I had meant to go to Rivendell at some point, husband,” he says in an undertone. “It is only wise to be on good terms with Lord Elrond. This is merely a reason to go now rather than later in the year.”

Thorin sighs. “I don’t like it,” he returns, just as quietly, “but better you should go than I. I would merely offend all of the elves at once, I’m sure.” He glances around the room. “Take Dis and her sons, and young Gimli; he is spoiling for an adventure, and it will be well if the young ones learn to be civil to elves.”

Bilbo beams at his husband. “Thank you,” he says softly. Then, louder so the rest of the room can hear, “I will depart with Lord Thrain and his people, and we may share the way until the edge of the Shire. Lady Gilraen, be welcome in Belegost until that day.”

Gilraen bows deeply. “I thank you,” she says, and steps back. Dis is beside her instantly, leading her away to one side and clearly beginning to interrogate her: what is a human woman doing in the Shire? Who _are_ the Dunedain? Why could Gandalf not come himself? Would Gilraen like a mug of beer, or a meal?

By the time open court is over, Gilraen and Dis are well on their way to becoming friends. Five days later, when Thrain and his thirty dwarves, all those who wish to reconquer Moria (and a few who simply dislike hobbits, to the plain bafflement of their fellows) set out upon the road, the little embassy goes with them: Dis and Gilraen, Fili and Kili and Gimli, and Bilbo in the place of honor in the middle.


	23. In Which Gandalf Explains Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Gandalf didn't come back to the Shire when he said he would.

Bilbo’s little party and Thrain’s company travel together until Bree. Then Thrain and his people turn south down the Long Road, and Bilbo and his party continue east to Rivendell. It is a good week’s journey, even with the ponies, but it is easy enough with the road beneath them and the pleasant spring weather. Fili and Kili have recovered their good spirits somewhat since the Battle of the Shire, and they and Gimli sing and joke and sometimes ride to one side or the other to pick interesting flowers and demand that Bilbo tell them what they are.

Dis and Gilraen are more composed, as befits a daughter of Durin’s line and one of Aranath’s. Still, they chatter with Bilbo about this and that, and the journey goes pleasantly. When they reach Rivendell, Lord Elrond himself comes out to meet them. Gilraen slides from her horse and bows to him.

“Hail, Lord Elrond,” she greets him. “I bring you Prince Consort Bilbo Baggins of Belegost; his sister-in-law, Dis daughter of Thrain; her sons, Fili and Kili; and Gimli son of Gloin.”

Elrond smiles at them all. “Be welcome to Rivendell,” he replies. “Come; we have rooms set aside for your party, Master Baggins, and Gandalf is most anxious to see you. We may speak of other things at a later time, I am sure.”

Bilbo thanks him profusely. Dis and the other dwarves follow another elf off to their rooms in the Last Homely House, but Elrond brings Bilbo directly to the great bedroom which has been given over to Gandalf the Grey. Gandalf is in bed, propped up on pillows and looking older than Bilbo has ever seen him; but he beams with pleasure when Bilbo enters the room.

“Bilbo, my boy! It is so good to see you! Come here and let me look at you.”

Bilbo is wearing mithril mail over his hobbit clothing, and has golden beads braided into his hair, and he looks as well as Gandalf could have hoped. He sits down on the foot of Gandalf’s bed and gazes at the old wizard in amazement.

“ _What_ has happened to you, Gandalf? I was sure that I would find you in the Shire, but the Thains told me you had never returned after you took me to Erebor!”

“Ah, well, that is a tale.” Gandalf picked up a pipe from his bedside table and took a long puff. “When I brought you through the Greenwood, these many months gone, I noticed that there was something wrong in the air, some foul stench I thought long gone from the world. Once I had delivered you safely to the dwarves, I went at once to investigate, and you may imagine my dismay when I found that in the southern reaches of the Greenwood there was a great and terrible darkness beginning to spread. Indeed, the folk who live near there had begun to call it _Mirkwood_ for its dim and dangerous ways! I went at once into the wood, and searched and searched until I found the source of the contamination: an old tower, from the days of the kings in Gondor, which had been destroyed in one of their great wars.

“Alas, it was uninhabited no longer. Within it dwelt a foul sorcerer calling himself the Necromancer. He drew his power from the dead, and raised their corpses to do his bidding.” Bilbo shivers, feeling slightly ill. Gandalf nods. “Well might you shiver! Such a power is among the darkest secrets of sorcery, and when I saw his power I knew at once that I must bring him low, else he would spread his foulness over all the Greenwood and its surroundings, and make a blight of a fair country! I took not even time to call upon my brother wizards for aid, nor to return to the Shire with reassurances – though I am sorry for your worry, Bilbo – but went at once to war.” Gandalf pauses and takes another deep puff of his pipe.

“It was a hard battle,” he says at last, “harder than I have ever fought ere now. There was a time I thought that I should die there, and with my death give free reign to that foul creature to overcome the Greenwood, and perhaps much more. Yet I did not die, and with the very last of my strength I struck down the Necromancer; yes, he is dead and gone, and his tower with him. There is nothing left but a great stone crag, with all the green burnt off of it, perhaps forever – for I cannot think that anything will grow where such an evil stood.”

“I wonder,” says Bilbo slowly. “When we were passing through the Greenwood – it was early summer, I recall – there was a moment of great turmoil, as if the earth and sky had shaken, or as if we were within a great and soundless bell. Could that have been the time of your victory?”

Gandalf considers, and then nods. “Yes, I think that must have been it, Bilbo my boy. The removal of a great evil from the world often has such repercussions.”

“Yet that was nearly a year ago!” cries Bilbo. “Have you been hurt and healing all this time?”

“I have,” Gandalf agrees solemnly. “The Necromancer wounded me sorely, my friend. For many days I could not move at all; and at last my salvation came in the form of the great King of the Eagles, who swooped down to see what lay upon a barren crag. I spoke to him, and he bore me up and carried me to Rivendell, and here I have remained, healing with the aid of Lord Elrond and his people. But tell me now of you – of your marriage, and of the great battle with orcs which I have heard reported.”

Bilbo smiles. “I am happily married,” he replies, and shakes his head so the trinkets jingle. “Thorin is a marvelous husband, and though it has taken us a while to know each other, still I think we will be happy for as long as we have together.” He looks down, suddenly sad. “Though he will outlive me a very long time.”

Gandalf considers. “I think,” he says at last, “you should mention this concern of yours to Lord Elrond. I will say no more upon the matter, for it is not mine to tell, but I do think you should ask him.”

“I will then,” says Bilbo, much confused, and tells of the finding of lost Belegost, and the Battle of the Shire which defeated so many orcs, and Thrain’s mission to reclaim Moria and at last restore his honor. He entertains Gandalf with stories of Dwalin and Ori’s slow courtship, and Dis’ great friendship, and the journey from Erebor to the Shire, with its spiders and wargs and the terror of the stone giants. Gandalf is a good audience; he listens well, and asks pointed questions now and then, and when Bilbo is done and the bell has rung for dinner, he leans back in his pile of pillows and smiles.

“I am well content,” he says. “Go on to dinner, Bilbo; they will bring me mine.” Once Bilbo is out the door, Gandalf blows a smoke ring and smiles at the ceiling. “Well, you have fallen square on your feet, Bilbo Baggins,” he muses to himself, “and I am very glad of it.”


	24. In Which Bilbo Asks Elrond's Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cryptic as always, Gandalf.

Bilbo dines with his companions that night. Dis informs him that Lord Elrond sent a message explaining that, due to Bilbo’s likely weariness from the journey, they will meet tomorrow. Bilbo is just as glad; seeing Gandalf so weary and beaten down was a horrible shock, and to know that Gandalf was fighting an evil sorcerer even as Bilbo was making friends with the elves of the Greenwood…well, Bilbo is just as glad he doesn’t have to be diplomatic immediately.

The next morning, Bilbo rises early, and when he goes in search of breakfast, he finds Lord Elrond waiting for him on a balcony, with a table full of food sitting beside him. Elrond beckons Bilbo to join him, and they sit and watch the sunrise in companionable silence. Just as Bilbo is about to speak, there is a sudden shriek of laughter, and four figures sprint by in front of the balcony: two elves and two dwarves, laughing in utter glee.

Bilbo says, mildly boggled, “Those were Fili and Kili.”

“And my sons Elladan and Elrohir,” Elrond agrees. “Perhaps the line of Durin is not entirely opposed to the idea of elves!”

They both break into laughter. Bilbo recovers first. “I am so glad!” he says. “I do not know why Thorin is so set against elves, but I am glad that our people will be able to be friends.”

“ ‘Our people,’ ” Elrond says slowly. “You consider yourself one of the dwarves?”

“I am a hobbit,” Bilbo says serenely. “And I am Prince Consort of Belegost, and co-ruler of its dwarves. They are all my people, hobbits and dwarves alike.”

“Ah,” replies Elrond, and smiles. “You give me hope, Master Baggins, that all the races of Middle-Earth may someday live in peace. If dwarves and hobbits can intermarry, and elves and dwarves laugh together, that day may come all the sooner.”

This is the best opportunity Bilbo is going to get, he thinks, and takes a deep breath. “Gandalf gave me strange advice yesterday,” he begins.

“Gandalf’s advice is usually good, even when it seems strange,” Elrond observes.

“I was telling him of my…my grief, that I will die so much before my husband; and Gandalf advised me to speak to you of it.”

Elrond starts visibly, and stares at the hobbit, then turns to stare at the house, in the direction of Gandalf’s room. “He told you so?” he asks incredulously, and then slowly sits back again. “Well. Gandalf always has his reasons for such things. If he bade you ask me of that grief, then he must mean for me to tell you, though it is a secret the elves have held these many ages past.”

“I do not mean to pry,” Bilbo says hastily.

Elrond smiles at him. “You do no harm by asking,” he says reassuringly, “and now that I think on it a little, I suppose I see why Gandalf bade you ask. Well. I have a tale for you, my friend.

“I am called Elrond Half-Elven, for my grandfather on one side was a human, and also my great-grandfather on the other side. In those days – for this was very long ago, as mortals reckon time – there were several elves who wished to wed human men or women, but as elves also wed but once, as the dwarves do, these elves wished to find a way to give their mortal lovers some semblance of their own long lives.

“At length they discovered a spell – a simple spell, one that even a mortal man without a drop of magic in him might perform. If two willing partners undertake this spell, then they will share each others’ lifespans: the elf would lose some portion of her years, and the mortal gain so many again.”

“Most wondrous!” Bilbo breathes.

Elrond nods. “And yet it has fallen out of favor, for to give up immortality for a mortal is a thing few elves dare to do. But – yes – I see why Gandalf sent you to me. For if a hobbit and a dwarf were to perform the spell, their lifespans would be joined; and since neither dwarf nor hobbit forfeits immortality, there is no reason to draw back.”

“I beg you,” says Bilbo softly, “give me this spell, and I will bring it to the hobbits of the Shire and the dwarves of Belegost, that they may marry and have children and be joyous with one another, and have no fear that one must die while the other is yet young.”

Slowly, solemnly, Elrond nods. “I will do so,” he promises. “I will give you the spell of Gwedhi-cuil, which has been a secret of my house for many years, before you leave Rivendell, and the only payment I will take for it is that you give it freely to all who desire it among both of your peoples.”

“That I swear, and gladly,” replies Bilbo.

Then they speak of other things: of trading gold and gems for the fine silks and delicate pottery of the elves, and of sending young dwarves and elves together over the mountains, to visit Lorien and Erebor and the Greenwood, and to learn to work together. Bilbo speaks of Thrain’s mission to Moria, and of the Battle of the Shire which slew so many orcs; and Elrond speaks of the ages before the hobbits came to the Shire, when Belegost was first inhabited by dwarves and the mountains rang with their mining and their song.

Bilbo stays for two weeks in Rivendell, while Dis and Gilraen wander the valley and become fast friends, and the twin sons of Elrond and the heirs of Durin’s line become near as close as brothers, and Gimli son of Gloin wanders through nearly every room in the Last Homely House, poking his nose into everything and becoming a general favorite, and befriending a very young human lad named Estel who is being fostered with Lord Elrond.

Before Bilbo leaves, Elrond gives him a book wrapped in waxed leather, to protect it from the elements. “Here is the spell of Gwedhi-cuil,” he says. “The book includes its history. I wish you well, Bilbo Baggins, you and all your people.”

“Thank you,” says Bilbo, and he means it.


	25. In Which Bilbo Brings Home The Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there is much rejoicing.

Bilbo reads the Book of Gwedhi-cuil in the long summer evenings as they journey back to Belegost. As they pass through the Shire, he stops at the house of a well-known herbwife and purchases several bundles of herbs, each carefully labeled. Dis is intensely curious, but Bilbo tells her he must tell Thorin first – that this is too important to let even the hints of rumors start. When they reach Belegost, Bilbo twitches through the requisite feast and merriment at his return, and takes the earliest opportunity to pull Thorin aside privately, ignoring Dwalin’s soft and bawdy speculation on why Bilbo is so eager to see his husband.

Bilbo spreads the book out on their bed with the herbs beside it and explains: there is a spell, developed years ago by elves, which binds the lifespans of two people. If dwarves and hobbits use it, the dwarves will lose perhaps a hundred years, perhaps a little more, to a new lifespan of two hundred or two hundred and fifty years. But the hobbits will _gain_ that life, and live at least two hundred years themselves. They will be able to spend their lives together. There will be no guarantee of grief.

The spell is relatively simple, he explains. A potion, made of these herbs. A cut on the hand of each participant, to share blood. A few words in Sindarin, to set the spell. And then a romp in bed, to share…other bodily fluids. That is all it takes. It can only be done once in a person’s lifetime, but surely once is enough.

Thorin stares at his husband for a long, long time, running over all the implications of this discovery. Then he lunges forward to gather Bilbo into his arms, clinging to him as their braids tangle together, and whispers in Bilbo’s ear every endearment he can think of. Bilbo clings back just as hard.

Finally Thorin pulls away. “How soon can you have the potion made?” he inquires.

“By tomorrow night,” Bilbo assures him.

Thorin nods decisively. “Then tomorrow night we will bind our lives together, and if it works, in the morning we will proclaim your discovery to all of Belegost, and I will give my blessing to any dwarf who wishes to wed a hobbit.”

Bilbo beams.

The next night, Bilbo has the potion ready. It isn’t a terribly appetizing-looking thing, though it smells a bit like new hay; but it matches the description in the book precisely, so Bilbo is pretty sure it will work properly. Thorin joins him in their bedroom, looking slightly nervous.

“I’ve ordered Dwalin not to interrupt us,” he says quietly. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Bilbo says instantly. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Thorin agrees solemnly. Bilbo holds out the two cups of potion.

“We each drink one of these,” he explains. “Then we cut our palms and join hands, and say – and I hope I have the pronunciation correct – ‘gogwedhi min cuil.’* If it starts to work, the cuts on our hands should heal; then we go to bed to complete the spell.” Thorin nods, clearly memorizing every word. Bilbo hands him a cup, and they toast each other silently and drain them together. The potion tastes a little like new-mown hay, too, which is an odd sensation.

Thorin draws a little dagger and cuts his left palm, then – as gently as he can, and with a wince of sympathy – Bilbo’s. They join hands between them. Bilbo takes a deep breath and sees Thorin mirror him.

“Gogwedhi min cuil,” they chorus softly. There is the oddest feeling in their hands, and when they look down, the cuts have healed.

“It is working,” Thorin says in wonder, and then he sweeps his husband into his arms. “And now I am to bed you, is that correct? What a marvelous pleasant spell.”

Bilbo laughs until Thorin drops him gently on the bed, and then he wriggles back until he’s in the center and pulls off his shirt and trousers. Thorin shucks his own clothing and joins his husband on the bed, grinning as he ruffles the thick fur on Bilbo’s feet on his way up. Bilbo giggles and twitches.

“Don’t _do_ that!”

“But it is such fun,” Thorin objects, leaning over to kiss Bilbo thoroughly. When he pulls away, Bilbo is looking a little dazed. “You wouldn’t want to deprive me of amusement, would you, husband?”

“Hmmm, no, I suppose not,” Bilbo replies muzzily, and reaches up to pull a triumphant Thorin back down for more kisses. Thorin takes great pride in being able to reduce his articulate husband to incoherency. Tonight, he has a plan.

Since the first time Thorin took his husband, months ago, they have learned much about each others’ bodies. Thorin knows just where to kiss and bite and stroke to make Bilbo cry out with pleasure, to drive the hobbit to begging in scant minutes. When Bilbo is utterly pliant beneath him, legs spread wide and willing around Thorin’s hips, Thorin kisses his husband again and rolls them over.

Bilbo blinks in surprise. “Thorin, what…?”

“I should like to see you,” Thorin rumbles. He slides slick fingers down between them to make sure Bilbo is prepared, then lifts the hobbit a little, hands tight on Bilbo’s hips. Bilbo’s eyes go wide, and he grins, catching on quickly for all the haze of lust. He braces himself on Thorin’s chest and waits while Thorin carefully lines himself up with Bilbo’s opening, then sinks down slowly. Thorin tightens his hands on Bilbo’s hips and grits his teeth with the effort not to thrust.

“I had forgotten,” he says, when Bilbo’s hips finally meet his, “what a tease you can be.”

Bilbo laughs and tosses his head back. The beads in his hair chime together, and Thorin is lost once again in the sheer beauty of his hobbit: cheeks flushed, lips bitten red, eyes closed in pleasure, with Thorin’s beads in his hair and Thorin’s bites littering his fair skin.

Thorin braces his feet and begins to move, and Bilbo sways above him, gasping and moaning in pleasure, almost too good to be true. Around them, the air seems to grow heavy, as if some great power is gathering; but they are too caught up in each other to notice. At last, when Bilbo cries out and comes, hard, spattering them both and tightening gloriously around Thorin, pulling his own completion from him, there is a great shiver in the air, and something seems to settle between them, some invisible chain or conduit. Thorin gathers his hobbit to his chest and murmurs, “I think it worked.”

Bilbo tucks his head under Thorin’s chin; it is his favorite sleeping position. “I think you’re right,” he agrees. They are both silent, utterly contented, for long moments.

At last Thorin mock-grumbles, “I suppose I shall have to thank the elves,” and falls asleep to his husband’s laughter.

In the morning they give Belegost the good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If I am using the Sindarin dictionary correctly, “gogwedhi min cuil” should mean, very roughly, “together bind our life.” Fluent Sindarin speakers are free to wince at the awful translation.


	26. Epilogue: In Which There Are Dwobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greatest treasure of Belegost is neither gold nor gems.

Within the year, half a dozen dwarves have found willing hobbit lasses to wed, Dori and Nori and Bofur among them. The Gwedhi-cuil spell works for all of them, as far as anyone can tell, and nine months after the first wedding, the halls of Belegost ring with rejoicing: Dori’s wife, Peony, has given birth to a daughter. She has pointed ears and furry feet, but she looks so like Dori that no one doubts she is his child. Bofur, who dotes upon his six-month-pregnant hobbit wife, declares that the child should be called a dwobbit, and though his wife swats him on the arm and laughs herself half-sick, the name catches on. Oin is close friends with a hobbit midwife, and can often be seen in consultation with her: dwobbit babies are larger than purebred hobbits, of course, but hobbit lasses are wide-hipped and fertile, and the midwife is sure that the dwobbits will not place an undue strain upon their mothers.

Fili marries Mim daughter of Nar, one of the few unmarried women to come on their expedition, three years after the Battle of the Shire. Mim is a beautiful dwarf lass with a lovely dark beard, and Fili, clearly smitten, makes gold ornaments and bells to adorn it. She is also of a good line, and Thorin – and, more importantly, _Dis_ – approves of her. Kili flirts with many hobbit lasses, but he is young yet, and does not need to settle down now that his elder brother is married. Thorin holds out hope that Mim will have children within the next ten years or so, cementing the future of the line of Durin. If the Gwedhi-cuil spell worked as they think, Thorin will not live to his grandfather’s great age; but on the other hand, Thorin will spend the rest of his life with Bilbo at his side, and that is not a prize to be scoffed at.

Dwalin marries Ori, of course, though it takes years for Dori to stop glowering whenever he sees them together. Dwalin braids iron beads into Ori’s hair, and teaches him to use the warhammer properly; Ori dedicates the books he writes about the company’s adventures to Dwalin son of Fundin, and wears Dwalin’s beads with pride, and no one doubts how much they adore each other.

On the five year anniversary of Thorin and Bilbo’s wedding, Belegost throws a party. Dis organizes it, with Ori’s willing help, and Dwalin is enlisted to keep Thorin and Bilbo from finding out. (Thorin does, in fact, remain oblivious until the day of the party. Bilbo finds out about a month beforehand and takes great pleasure in keeping his knowledge a secret from everyone.) Half the Shire is invited, and all the Thains, and the ale flows long into the night. Songs are sung celebrating the Battle of the Shire, and the cleverness of Bilbo, and the glorious kingship of Thorin son of Thrain.

But the true highlight of the evening, for every dwarf there, is the sight of dozens of dwobbit children, the eldest with their beards just beginning to show, running freely through the crowd. Dori, at one point, is positively festooned with them: his daughter perched on his shoulders, two of her cousins sitting on his feet, and six other unrelated dwobbits hanging off his arms and belt. He stands like a colossus, hardly daring to move, and it is several minutes before Peony can recover from her laughter, hand their infant son to Niri beside her, and respond to her husband’s plaintive cries for rescue.

Thorin, at the head table, leans over to speak to Bilbo. “There is the treasure of my kingdom,” he says softly. “There is no dwarf kingdom in the entire history of Middle-Earth which has had so many children, so swiftly. Belegost will grow and prosper. And this is all because of you, my husband; if you had not brought back the spell, this could not be.”

Bilbo grins. “I am very glad Elrond gave it me,” he agrees. “Even if we will never have children, I suppose in a sense every dwobbit child in Belegost is ours.”

Thorin decides that propriety can be dispensed with, just this once, and gathers his husband onto his lap. Bilbo squawks and bats at Thorin’s hands, but after a moment he relaxes back against Thorin’s chest and tucks his head under Thorin’s chin.

“You’re an utter sap, you know,” he murmurs just loud enough for Thorin to hear.

Thorin chuckles. “It’s good for the kingdom to see their King and their Prince Consort are happy,” he counters. Indeed, many of the dwarves and hobbits are giving warm looks to the pair. “Also, we must show our appreciation for the party.”

Bilbo grins. “It has nothing to do with you liking to cuddle me, then.”

“Nothing at all,” says Thorin loftily, and Bilbo tugs his husband’s beard gently, and leans back into Thorin’s comforting strength, and watches his people laugh and play, feeling warm and safe and loved. Thorin holds his beloved hobbit close and looks at the wealth of children which will make his kingdom greater than Erebor ever was, and is utterly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The map I used for reference for most of this story can be found at http://3rin.gs/#0.6279297,1.3339844,0.0648602,-0.0613607,c,. I also used the genealogies from http://lotrproject.com/thehobbit/ and various character notes from the Tolkien Gateway, http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Main_Page. The Wikipedia pages on Khuzdul, the language of flowers, and the dwarves of Middle-Earth were great helps to me, and Hiswelókë's Sindarin dictionary, at http://www.jrrvf.com/hisweloke/sindar/online/sindar/dict-sd-en.html, let me find the words for the spell. The genealogical charts at the back of my copy of The Return of the King, and the list of names in the party scene in The Fellowship of the Ring, gave me the names for the Thains of the Shire.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left kudos or a comment, or both – getting messages every day about how much people liked the story kept me going. The lovely people who commented on chapter one that the ficlet needed a sequel are almost entirely responsible for the fact that this got so incredibly long.
> 
> Immense thanks, finally, to my Best Beloved, who does not read slash and nevertheless listened to me gabble on about this story for most of two weeks straight, and helped me brainstorm many of the major plot points of the story, fill in gaping plot holes, and otherwise make the story immeasurably better.
> 
> There will be a sequel! Posting will begin on Monday the 18th of March.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Coats and Customs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127288) by [nickelsissocool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsissocool/pseuds/nickelsissocool)




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